The trail along the south fork of the Merced River in Wawona fades away about a mile beyond the famous swinging bridge. Once the bridge and large pool underneath it is behind me I rarely encounter other hikers.
The path follows the river up the left bank and weaves through the sugar pines, cedar and manzanita. It passes by a few medium size pools and a small dam behind which is a shallow reservoir that supplies some of the drinking water for Wawona. Water flows into a large pipe that leads back toward the cabins and hotel.
One afternoon several years ago I was sitting on the rock that slopes down to the reservoir. I was reading, napping and enjoying the calmness provided by the flowing river. Trout huddled in the deepest part of the pool facing up stream occasionally rising to slurp a bug from the surface. My reverie was disturbed by a helicopter that came down the river with a large bucket dangling from a thick cable. It hovered over the river and dipped the bucket into the deepest part of the pool then rose above the trees and disappeared towards the Mariposa Grove of sequoias. Over the next hour the helicopter came several more times to refill the bucket. I later found out about the small fire that was burning to the south and the helicopter was part of the crew that extinguished the flames before they got out of control. It was a calm windless afternoon which no doubt aided the firefighters. On this day they were lucky.
The trail finally disappears at a deep tub that is filled from where the water pours out of a narrow chute. The water jets out and over a ledge dropping about ten feet. The pool is probably fifteen feet deep. I've jumped off the boulders on both sides of the river and had to work to touch bottom. It may be my favorite swimming hole in The Park.
But today I choose to continue on up river. The water level is low. We are now in the third year of a devastating drought. In twenty-five years I've never seen so little flow. But it makes for easier rock hopping. Relatively speaking.
At first the going is smooth. There are lots of flat dry rocks and I meander from side to side of the not so mighty Merced. The day is warm and the occasional dark cloud passes overhead. There is a chance of rain later. Last night as we sat out on the deck of our cabin sipping a nightcap we watched lighting flashes and heard the faraway rumble of thunder.
A half an hour later the going is slower, the rocks bigger, the canyon tightens in. But I am in no hurry and have no real destination. I'm just out to scramble until I get tired. It is a day to clear my mind of the filth that has been accumulating and cluttering my life. A day to achieve a bit of solitude and realign my focus. It has been a hectic summer so far and I've been craving the solace that being off the beaten path brings. And I'm cheered and content to not only find myself off the beaten path but to be on no path at all. The last hint of a trail is now an hour behind me. The river is my guide.
The riverside is littered with the remains of fallen trees that have washed down from the higher elevations. There is everything from thirty foot logs six feet around wedged against massive boulders to small polished pieces of driftwood worn thin and smooth and that fit in the palm of my hand.
I spot a dragonfly that has black and yellow bands the color of a bumblebee. It's about three inches long and hovers around me for a few minutes before speeding off down stream. My dragonfly guide book is back in the jeep along with my bird and flower books.
I move slowly up the river now as the going gets more complicated. The rocks are bigger, more slippery and farther apart. I get stuck at a spot on the right side and have to backtrack a bit. After making it across the river and moving up stream a few hundred yards I find myself blocked by several boulders twenty to thirty feet high. The walls of the canyon I now find myself in rise sharply forty or fifty feet on both sides of me. I am at an impasse unless I want to go back a half a mile and scale the cliff where it looked easier. I want to continue upstream to a grand pool that I made it to almost twenty years ago.
On that long ago day with Reilly, Morando and Maki, I remember having to bushwhack for a while before returning to the river. Somehow today I missed the accessible spot where I could climb above the maze of rocks.
I can look up stream and see where the river bends to the right and I feel as if I'm close to the pool. But I can't really be sure, it was a long time ago and I was in much better shape. For all I really know I could be a few miles short. So after a half hearted attempt to claw my way up what looks to be an easier and less steep spot, but is all loose rock, I decide instead to sit in the middle of the river high up on a cool dark stone the size of my bedroom. I read for a while as the clouds that shaded the canyon all morning start to dissipate. The day turns warmer and I bask in the bright Sierra sunshine. I could easily nap.
In the last week alone I've been called elusive, a loner and a recluse. And not pejoratively. My friends mean well (I hope) when they say these things to me. And I take them as compliments even though I am none of them. A day like today where I get to hike alone is a rarity. So I take full advantage of my solitariness and sit listening to the river, watching lizards and dragonflies, and scribbling the occasional note. I loaf.
I think I could spend a few days on this rock. What would I need? A light sleeping bag, my stove and some tea and soup, water, trail mix, a headlamp, a few guide books, a camera, not much else. A bear-proof food container, or more simply, just a sack and a rope. I could be assured that no one would disturb me. But already after an hour I'm becoming restless. I remember that even Thoreau, after a day of deep thinking at Walden Pond, would saunter back to Concord for dinner with the Emersons.
As much as I like to think I could spend days alone with my thoughts eventually I'd like to share (and bore) others with them. What good is having grand ideas if you keep them to yourself?
I look in my pack for my candy bar. Gone. Did I eat it already? Or just forget to bring it? My deep meditations about how to make the world a better place fade like the morning mist on the river. My mind turns to the fridge full of food back at the cabin. And beer. Ice cold beer is waiting for me at the end of the trail. My stomach rumbles and I wonder what great feast Pak has planed for tonight. I surely would make a terrible ascetic.
Yet I can't quite bring myself to shoulder my pack and start downstream. I stare up to the top of the canyon and watch the water tumble around the rocks. The endless river. It has flowed nonstop since the last time I was way up here. And for how many years before that? Many hundreds? Many thousands? It's a strange sort of constant. New fresh water flowing over old cold stones. If I'm able to make it again to this spot twenty years from now everything will be familiar on the large scale but the slight changes of course will be imperceptible. I should easily be able to recognize this place.
And a hundred years from now, when I am not even a memory, or ten-thousand years from now, parts of this river will be as familiar as my driveway. There will be slight variations from floods and earthquakes but overall I would guess that snowmelt will still be running off the peaks. I hope so anyway. What are the odds that humans will still be around? The fragility of our grip is apparent. I give it 70 to 30 against. But I'm an optimist. It could very well be 99 to 1.
I hear it before I see it. The high pitch chirp is unmistakable. I sit quietly on my stone for a few more minutes until the bird hops into view a couple of yards away and bobs up and down on a rock. The Water Ouzel, or as it is more dully called, the American Dipper, is a bird that demands cold clear waters. Its habitat is fast moving fresh clean mountain rivers. It can not survive at lower elevations or near sluggish streams. To see one is a sign that you are in a pristine and wild place. For a while I watch as the slate colored Dipper jumps from rock to rock (like me) occasionally disappearing behind moss covered pieces of granite. The bird blends in perfectly with the stones and when it sat still and I wasn't looking directly at it it disappeared completely. An evolutionary advantage against predators.
But I am just a simple and inept birdwatcher. I mean no harm and am not at all dangerous. The Water Ouzel and I make our way downstream together. The bird keeps ten or fifteen yards ahead of me for a while and then suddenly flys back over my head and follows the winding river course up and out of my sight.
Over the years I've taken my small doses of wildness when and where I can get them. Ravens in the cedars, a deer in the meadow, a rattlesnake on the trail, vultures floating on the thermal winds, marmots above the tree line, the occasional black bear viewed through the trees, a peregrine near Glacier Point, a coyote on the side of the road and once a bobcat in the snow. All beautiful sights. But the wolves and grizzlies are long gone from California. Which makes the Sierras measurably more tame, safer and certainly duller. Nothing is out there hunting us. Nothing wants to eat us. Which, I can understand, most people prefer. There have been random mountain lion sightings over the years but they have been very very rare. Something is lost once we are no longer part of the food chain. We are less frightened of what's out there which makes us more complacent and less apt to pay better attention to what might be lurking around the next bend in the river. We are pretty much safe from everything except ourselves. Tameness offers a certain comfort that is vastly enjoyed by the majority. I, however, hope to glimpse one of those elusive mountain lions someday. Even if only for a brief moment on a lonely trail at dusk.
Onward down river I scramble. Before I reach the deep tub and the trail I come across a group of sunbathers. Four girls who have made it further up stream than the normal tourists, who generally stick close to the swinging bridge, are enjoying what they thought was going to be a secluded and private spot. It's obvious that they didn't expect a disheveled and sweaty long-haired old man to come rock hopping toward them from upstream. We exchange greetings and I marvel at a sight every bit as intriguing as the Water Ouzel. I leave them with their shy smiles and think to myself that there are infinite levels of wildness and beauty. I hope I didn't spoil their solitude too much.
Soon I'm back on the trail kicking up dust as I slog towards the cabin. I stop and check on the old dead pine that has refused to topple over in the twenty-five years I've been observing it. It has remained standing through yet another winter. How many more it might have before crashing to the ground? I refuse to offer a prediction.
The cabin smells of Pak's kitchen wizardry. He's making a curry dish that won't be ready until dinner. He's chopping vegetables and before I can take off my boots he hands me a beer and a bowl of spicy noodle soup. I can't help but feeling that I am spoiled rotten.
After showering off the dust, dirt and sweat, I sit on the deck savoring the dry breeze that gently blows through the pines. Everyone is relaxed and later we enjoy a leisurely dinner outside as the day fades away and twilight lingers as the alpenglow illuminates Wawona Dome.
Our last day in The Park is always bittersweet. Nobody wants to leave and we take a short walk to the river. The cabin is cleaned and our cars are packed. I hug the Wus before they get in their truck and head back to the blistering heat of Sacramento. Back to work and school and the dogs. Back to the normal routines that carry them through the days and weeks and, yes, even the years. Time flys by with the fleetness of the black and yellow dragonfly zipping up the Merced.
I think about driving to The Valley but decide against it. I fear the mob scene of mid July might be a bit much for me. And besides, Wawona is peaceful and uncrowded on this summer day. I walk over to the hotel and incredibly the big white porch with its cushioned wicker chairs is empty. I go back to my jeep and grab my pack then settle in on a big couch at the far end of the porch. There is a cool breeze blowing up from the meadow and storm clouds in the distance. Rain would be nice but the accompanying lighting is a constant worry for the Park's firefighters.
I read for a while undisturbed by even a waitress. Which settles the issue of whether or not to have a beer. My guide book, Common Dragonflies of California, tells me that in all probability what I saw yesterday was a Western River Cruiser, Macromia magnifica. Another denizen of the wild cold rivers of the Western Sierras.
I can't help myself and go to the front desk to see if there is a room available. No luck. I didn't expect one but I had to try. I guess if I want to be home before midnight I had better get on the road. As I drive south toward the Park exit the sky darkens and the air smells like rain. A few drops hit the jeep but that's all. I later find out I missed a good storm by about an hour.
I stop at Fish Camp, like I usually do, and grab a real estate magazine. Just in case.
