Mount Dana is the second highest peak in Yosemite. It is just over 13,000 feet and much more accessible than the higher Mount Lyell. It's a last minute decision. I'm sitting near my tent at Bridalveil campgrounds reading guidebooks and maps by lamplight. Today I had strolled up Sentinel Dome and now I was itching for something more. Dana seemed like an easy enough hike for tomorrow. I walked out to the edge of a nearby meadow and looked into the Milky Way for a good half hour, I’m always amazed at the majesty of the night sky at this altitude. The uncountable stars and the band of light that looks like a path to infinity mesmerizes me and before I get carried away I force myself back to my tent and a solid night of mountain sleep. Before sunrise I have the tent rolled up, my daypack organized and I'm driving toward Tuolumne Meadows. It's a beautiful morning and it warms up fast. Large fluffy clouds float above the Sierras. They look, so far, harmless enough. The weather report for the high country says that rain is not expected.
At this hour I have the road pretty much to myself and make good time. In less than two hours I'm at the parking lot at the trailhead. Mine is the only car. I feel good; my legs seem strong and my lungs breath deep the crisp alpine air. I look up and still see patches of snow on the nearby rocky peaks. Not at all unusual for July at 9000 feet.
I eat some leftovers from last night's dinner and a candy bar. I shoulder my pack and walk up the gently sloping trail through a patch of pines.
I feel the altitude. I'm slightly short of breath after fifteen minutes of exertion. It's not long before I'm out of the trees and making my way through an open field and soon I'm climbing the steep path that brings me to a wide plateau. Already the views are spectacular. Nevada, flat as a table, stretches out to the east and in every other direction the peaks of the Park reach to the horizon. The summit looms above me.
The path turns to loose rock and footing is tricky. The delicate blue Sky Pilot pokes out of the talus along the trailside. It is a flower that only blooms above 10,000 feet and its tiny bright petals are a sharp contrast to the dusty grey rock. I sit for a while on a stone trying to get my second wind before slogging upwards. I feel I'm making steady, if a slow, progress.
After more than a half hour of thinking I'm minutes from the top I finally crest a few boulders and stand on the summit. I'm alone in the windy cool air. I pull on a fleece and soak up the vistas of snow capped peaks that abruptly give way to the dry desert past Mono Lake. This is the highest I've ever hiked, 13,061 feet. Not bad for a kid who lives at sea level.
My breathing gets back to normal as I pirouette, not quite sure which direction to look. It's all so magnificent and gorgeous. The sky is full of clouds but it's early enough in the day that they aren't quite thunderheads. They won't turn dark and dangerous until later in the afternoon.
The beauty is such that there is a lump in my throat. The grandeur of the the high Sierra moves me to tears. A healing power at work. The vistas of snow and rock, sky and forest, make my heart tremble. I couldn't climb all the mountains within my vision in two lifetimes. The immensity of my surroundings is truly astounding. The world will always be more than we know.
I shiver in the cold air and sit for a while against a pile of stones that have been piled into a windbreak. I try to take it all in and am filled with amazement and wonder. Having nowhere to be I rest and ponder the mountains from my elevated position. There is great comfort in solitude.
I lose track of time, that nebulous mystery that confounded even Einstien.
I hear voices on the trail below me and I'm soon joined by a group of retired women teachers from San Diego. They are cheerful and giddy with their success of making it to the top. We take pictures of each other and they share their grapes and chocolate with me. You meet the nicest people on mountain tops. We talk of other climbs and hikes and our appreciation of the wilds of windswept and barren summits.
A lone walker appears at the top of the trail and I do a double take. He is not outfitted for hiking. He wears dress shoes and slacks and a button down shirt under a light windbreaker. He has no pack or water. He grins broadly and is not even out of breath. He greets us with a thick German accent and explains that he is in Silicon Valley for work and had a day off. He wanted to see what our California mountains were like so he drove to Yosemite and randomly chose Dana from the basic map that is handed out at the Park entrance. He was thrilled with the beauty of the Sierras and happy that he was able to squeeze in a short easy hike before he had to drive back to Palo Alto for work in the morning. He said these mountains rivaled the ones in his backyard where he hiked regularly, the Alps. With a happy wave he was gone, trotting down the trail with grace and ease. A true mountaineer at home in the thin air.
The next visitor to the summit is a kid in his late twenties also full of enthusiasm at his accomplishment. His excitement rekindles ours and we point out other peaks and marvel at how close Mono Lake seems to be.
When he relaxes and clams down a bit he looks at one of the teachers incredulously and says "Mrs ......?" She answers "Yes".
"You were my kindergarten teacher!"
And there, on a blustery summer day at 13,061 feet above sea level, I witnessed a warm reunion. They hadn't seen each other in twenty years. Once again I'm perplexed by coincidence. Although I shouldn’t be. They happen all the time if you pay attention. Hopefully, life will continue to offer up its random surprises to me.
The wind picks up and the clouds grow larger and darker and they look ripe for a thunderstorm. It's common enough in summer to have afternoon showers and we all agree to get off the summit before the lightning starts bouncing off the peaks. I'm first to say my goodbyes and slowly pick my way down the steep incline of loose exfoliating rock. I take my time because I notice I'm slightly lightheaded and would prefer not to slide on my ass the remaining few miles to my red truck. Still high up there really isn't much of a trail and after some zigzagging I notice I'm not quite heading to where I think I should be. Ravens zip back and forth over my head making a crazy racket and I'm reminded of the Jane Hirshfield poem about the birds who alert the lions to the presence of prey. I'm momentarily aware of being part of the food chain. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation. I realign my bearings and soon I'm back on the path making steady progress toward the road.
By the time I get to the truck I'm exhausted and my legs are shaking. But overall I feel good and remain exhilarated as I drive the Tioga Pass back to the Valley. As usual, I'm in no hurry. I have nowhere to be for days. A true dirtbag existence.
I stop at the base of Lembert Dome and almost decide to scramble to the top. But then I opt out. That might be pushing it for one day.
Lembert Dome was the first hike that I ever took in the Park way back in 1988. And I've returned many times since. It's an easy climb and the rewards are wonderful. The view looking across the meadow and at the beauty of the gently flowing Tuolumne River once gave me solace at a particularly vexing time. I've spent hours on top of the Dome gazing at Yosemite's highest peaks.
Instead of climbing up I walk along the meadow trail to Soda Springs and take a sip of the bubbly water. It’s rumored to mix well with whiskey, but my flask is back in the truck. It's a bit bitter but no matter, it's nonetheless a treat. I look back and up at Lembert and don't second guess my decision not to climb it. I'm content to saunter near the river letting my leg muscles stretch and relax after the hard work on Dana.
My next stop is Tenaya Lake. I take the easy walk around to the far side. The water is calm and clear. A few years back Pak Wu and I spent an afternoon here kayaking. It was a pleasant day drifting on the alpine lake enjoying the perfect Sierra summer sunshine and marveling at the giant granite mountains that slope up from the shore.
Not sure where I'm going to stay tonight I head back toward the Valley. There are never any sites open at the big campgrounds on a summer night so I continue on to Wawona hoping to luck out at the campground there. No dice, it’s packed. I decide to have a beer at the hotel. I'm thirsty, hungry, sweaty and dusty. I'm thinking about parking at the end of Chilnuwalna Road near the trailhead to the upper falls and hiking a few hundred yards up and sleeping on a rock that I know of. But just as a joke I ask at the reception desk if there's a room to be had and, another fine coincidence, one just became available moments ago. Without hesitation I take it and a hour later, after a long hot bath, I am sitting in the airy dining room looking out the windows and enjoying dinner. The service, like always, is unhurried.
The old hotel is a comfortable and romantic place. Historic and rustic, a reminder of different times. The pace here is always slow and relaxed. It invites leisure. The big wide porch with its wicker furniture overlooking the fountain and peaceful grounds is the perfect spot to watch the sunset. Which I do.
Tonight, unfortunately, the great piano player, Thomas Bopp, is off. On most evenings in summer he can be found in the parlor off the main lobby sitting at the baby grand singing old show tunes and historic songs of Yosemite's early days. He is a national treasure and I'm disappointed to miss him.
I'm too restless to go to my room and it's still twilight so I walk up the trail by the river until it gets too dark to see. I cross the Merced at the swinging bridge and make my way back to the hotel with the help of my headlamp. Now I'm tired, really tired. But I need a few more minutes on the porch just to take in the night. The air cools slightly and smells of pine and manzanita. It's intoxicating to say the very least.
In my room I open wide the window facing the trees. The breeze high in the pines is the last sound I hear before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.
