Pak Wu and I have now been friends for more than half of our lives. Almost thirty-five years. In that time we have hiked hundreds of miles of trails, stood at the top of many mountains, sat by fires until the flames turned to embers then coals, then ash. We have snowboarded and skied all over the Sierras. We have sat across from each other at more elaborate dinner parties than we can count. The winds have been at our backs for a very long time.
At his house this past Thanksgiving he reminisced about a winter when we were lucky enough to have, if not a lot of money, a lot of free time. Pak was in-between jobs and living, where he still does, in Sacramento. I was back in Santa Barbara and only working two days a week. We have always remembered this time warmly.
We met one weekend up here in Wawona with plans to snowboard at Yosemite’s Badger Pass. As coincidence had it on that first trip, we pulled into the south entrance at the same time. Not bad in the days before cell phones. It was snowing hard, big wet flakes coming straight down, there was no wind. It was too early to check into our cabin, right down the path from where I am tonight, so we walked toward the Mariposa Grove of Sequoias catching each other up on our lives since we were last together a few months earlier. The road was closed and the snow was accumulating quickly. All of a sudden we came around a corner and there were the big tress. In our excitement we hiked the two miles in no time while talking and laughing and trying to guess how much snow would fall up at Badger Pass tonight. There was already two inches atop of Pak’s wool hat.
After we opened up the tiny cabin and started a fire Pak made a remarkable dinner in the small galley kitchen. Maine lobster with garlic sauce flambèd quickly in whiskey. We fell asleep talking, me on the couch, Pak in the bedroom with the door open.
It’s still snowing the next morning and we hurried to get to the mountain to be the first on the lift. Over a foot of snow had fallen during the night and because of the weather the hill was uncrowded. We had most of the runs to ourselves. I was still new at snowboarding and spent the morning getting tips and finding my rhythm and balance. Pak was my teacher, I never took a lesson.
Fresh powder is very forgiving and I became more confident as the day went on. We took a few breaks for quick snacks and later in the afternoon a Guinness. Gentle squalls blew across the hills all day and occasionally a window of blue sky would open up and we’d glide into a sunny patch of snow before the clouds took over again. The day was the white of the slopes, the green of the pines and every so often we’d see a pair of vivid black ravens perched on a branch contemplating whatever it is ravens of the high country contemplate.
At four o’clock, when the mountain closed, it was still snowing. We reluctantly took our last run as the already grey afternoon started to get dark. We agreed it was one of our most fun days on the hill.
Back at the cabin somehow Pak finds the energy to make another big dinner. Soup and a noodle dish washed down with beer. The fire and the food warms us and my muscles are achy, we are windburned and exhausted. But we are thrilled with our day. We fall asleep recapping our best runs.
In the morning, it’s still snowing but lightly now and we wish we had another day up at Badger. Instead all we have time for is a stroll up to the swinging bridge.
Before we check out we come up with a plan and laugh at our brilliance. At the desk we book another cabin for ten days later. We stop at the Wawona Hotel, which is closed for the season, to take some pictures and say a proper goodbye. And it’s a happy goodbye seeing we will be back here again in less than two weeks. It is still snowing and I drive to Oakhurst before I pull over to take the chains off my tires.
Today as I reach Fish Camp there is snow on the ground and the road is icy all the way to Wawona. I am always in a semi-state of euphoria while making this drive. A low misty fog hangs over the meadow across from the hotel, which is closed for the year. Sometimes it stays open through New Year’s Day, this year for whatever reason it didn’t. I wanted to see Tom Bopp play the piano in the parlor but now I’m on my own for entertainment. Thankfully, I have his music on my iPod.
My cabin tonight, Hasting’s Hideaway, is only slightly bigger than the ones Pak and I used to stay at. I have a grand fireplace that is now warming the room. The wood was slightly damp and there was no kindling so it took me a few minutes and the entire Sunday LA Times to finally get the logs to catch. While looking for more paper I found a cabinet of books, mostly romance novels by authors I was unfamiliar with. I, of course, could never bring myself to burn a book because there is always the possibility that someone might pick up one of those cheap paperbacks and read a line by an obscure writer that changes the trajectory of their lives. I know this could happen because it has happened to me. A friend once teased me that I might be the kind of blasphemer that would burn a bible. But I never ever would do that. The King James translation has done much good in the world, it has turned many deep thinkers into atheists. Something to be grateful for indeed.
Anyway, I’m in no danger of freezing to death. I find a paper bag and roll it up, tuck it under the logs and this last little boost catches the wood. I open a 2010 Acronicus Cabernet and let it breath. By the time dinner is ready the wine has aired sufficiently and I raise a glass to my old friend, the late Steve Acronico, the sponsor of this delicious bottle.
As I’ve being doing for forty years I have lugged Emerson’s essays with me. He has always proved to be as fine a traveling companion as I could hope for. A month ago I was reading him on the shore of Berry Pond in Massachusetts. It was a day when autumn was at its peak of beauty and color. The trees glowed orange, yellow and red. He wrote; “The beauty that shimmers in the yellow afternoons of October, who ever could clutch it?”
Tonight I read, “Heed thy private dream.”
I step out on the deck, it’s in the low 20s and the winter air is crisp. I take a few deep breaths and realize how tired I am. Back in front of the fire I sip a little more red wine and soon I can’t keep my eyes open. I throw a big log on and fall asleep to the flames catching.
It’s still dark when I wake up. The fire is out but the room is warm enough. I make some tea and pack some snacks and water before driving to the Washburn trailhead. I know that parts of this area are off the grid but just to be safe I turn my phone to airplane mode. I’m not taking any chances on being disturbed.
The sun has not risen above the mountains yet and even though I’m wearing wool mittens, a fleece hat and my down jacket I shiver as I start up the trail. Two days ago six or seven inches of snow fell but some snowshoers broke the path yesterday and the trail is easy to follow. The trees are laden with snow and the absolute silence is beautiful. The woods are muffled except for the squeaking of my Vibram soled boots on the hard packed trail. It’s too early in the morning for other hikers and I absorb my solitude like a drug. Which it is for me.
I stop and rest at an overlook above the valley south of Wawona as the sun comes up over the hills. The patches of snow along the trail catch the slanting light and a million ice crystals shine at me like a field of tiny diamonds. This amazing visual only lasts a few minutes until the sun moves higher in the sky. Timing!
I am on a mission here this morning. A few months ago I read The California Days of Ralph Waldo Emerson by Brian C. Wilson. It’s a wonderful book and I learned some new stuff about the great sage of Massachusetts. One mystery, however, that I had been pondering for a long time remained unanswered. When Emerson visited the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias with Galen Clark, their self appointed caretaker, and along with John Muir, he named one of the trees after the New England Native American chief Samoset. Over the years I talked to a few park rangers and nobody knew which tree it could be. The plaques had been removed in the 1920s the trees being deemed too impressive to have pedestrian names.
I wrote to Professor Wilson asking if in his research would he have found any information that might point to exactly where Samoset might be located. He replied the next day and in his email included a drawing, two 62 year old black and white photos and an entry from The Emerson Society Quarterly dated 1961 that gave a very detailed description of where in the grove the tree stood that was written in 1935. Well, a lot can happen in a forest in almost 90 years but now I knew where to look.
I took another quick break to watch two acorn woodpeckers whack away on the trunks of the tall cedar tress and sugar pines on the trailside. They called out to each other for a while and then flew off through the canopy and again I was immersed in silence. I picked up my pace and as I gained a little altitude the snow got deeper. A turn in the trail brings me out to the lower grove. I am lucky enough to be here on winter mornings every few years when I have the trees to myself. On a summer day up to a thousand people visit this part of the Park. But today I feel like Galen Clark as I inspect the the magnificence of this deeply wondrous spot. He lived alone a few miles up the trail at the upper part of the grove in a small cabin he built himself. I suspect very few others have stood alone and meditated on these great sequoias, some of which are well over a thousand years old. As if I don’t usually feel painfully insignificant enough on most days.
I make my way to the Fallen Monarch, a tree that fell hundreds of years ago and has been slowly decaying ever since. It takes a tree about as long as it lived to completely decompose. This impressive trunk will be here for a very long time; many, many human generations. Again I’m overcome with feelings of impermanence.
I take out my compass and read the email Professor Wilson sent me. It says Samoset is the southern most tree in a cluster of three directly east of the Fallen Monarch. Well, there is only one sequoia due east. It’s entirely possible that two of the three trees have fallen in the past ninety years. In fact there are several prone trunks in the right place but because of the snow I can’t see where the stumps might be. I try to compare the scars on the standing tree to the blurry and aged photos I have and while I can’t be completely positive after so much time has passed I am reasonably sure I have the right tree. It fits the description. Now I have to come back in summer and survey the stumps and rotting logs.
I imagine Emerson, Clark and Muir standing right here marveling at the power of Nature. Muir wanted Ralph Waldo to stay and camp the night in the grove but the philosopher’s handlers feared he would catch a chill and be unable to give his lectures in San Francisco a few days later. Emerson reluctantly did not spend an evening fireside with Muir. A conversation which never happened that surely would have been transcendent. Regardless, neither man ever forgot their brief encounter. Emerson called Muir a modern day Thoreau and Muir cherished his memories of the few days the great thinker spent in his beloved valley paradise.
Seeing I’m here, I stroll the mile up to the Grizzly Giant, the Park’s largest tree, and again give thanks for my solitude at this very magical place. I’ve taken a hundred pictures of this tree over the years and not a single one even slightly conveys just how impressive it is to stand here and gaze up into its branches while circumnavigating the base.
The day is starting to warm and I unzip my jacket and put my mittens in my pocket. I hear occasional birdsong. I have a snack while taking one more look at the possible Samoset. I take a photo to send to Professor Wilson. I hear voices over at the snow covered parking lot and see two people across the grove. We wave to each other, they take the far path and I hike off on the Washburn Trail. I want to tell them how lucky they are to be here and to have the trees to themselves but perhaps if they made the effort to get out this early they already know.
A few hundred yards from the trailhead and parking lot where I left my jeep several groups of x-country skiers, snowshoers and hikers are just starting towards the grove. My timing is perfect.
Back at the cabin I take my phone off airplane mode. No messages! I heat up some stew that my friend Kay sent with me. It’s comfortable enough to sit on the deck until the sky clouds over, not for long it turns out. Back inside I pick up Emerson and, as he has been known to do to me, I become drowsy and feel like a nap. It’s too nice out to sleep away the afternoon so I put on my wet boots and trudge off to the Swinging Bridge Trail. The sun is back out and before I know it I’m there. The Merced is flowing loudly with all the runoff from the snowstorm and the deep pool under the bridge is ringed on the shady side with a thin layer of ice. The trail from there to the Tubs is unbroken. The snow is only five or six inches deep and my feet are already damp so I continue on. There are stretches that have been used by deer so the going is pretty easy.
I make it to the rock where I flung some of Mide’s ashes a few years ago. It is capped with snow and looks darker than I remember against the white background. I tell him that I recently came across a letter from him where he writes about me moving to California being the right thing for me to do at the time. He reiterates something we talked about often over the years; that if I stayed in Pittsfield after his accident there really wouldn’t have been much for me to do for him. I know this isn’t entirely true and it took me a very long time to believe that he thought it best that I go live my life. He gave me permission to take advantage of a freedom that was unavailable to him. I thank him for his generosity of spirit. Something he never lost even on his bleakest of days. We listen to the river tumble from the mountains for a while and as I retrace my footprints back to the swinging bridge I wonder what someone would think if they caught me talking, and laughing, to a rock. Oh wells!
At the pool a Water Ouzel catches my eye. Spotting this bird always cheers me up. For twenty minutes I watch as it dives into the cold current. It stays submerged for ten or fifteen seconds then suddenly pops out of the water onto a rock. I think it might soon get tired but I get a chill first and head down the trail leaving this energetic little indicator of fresh clean rivers to feast away on winter insects.
I get my cold soaked boots off, put on fleece socks and light a fire. The Hideaway heats up as quickly as the sun sets. Down the street several of my neighbor’s Christmas lights glow enchantingly. After dinner, in front of a big fire, I listen to a very moody nordic album, Christmas Songs by Trygve Seim, while I sip a whiskey called Stagecoach distilled in Santa Barbara by my friend Ian Cutler. The combination is ridiculously soothing.
Just before I fall asleep on the couch Joanna texts me. She’s at home with the kids in the hot tub and wants to remind me that tonight the Geminid meteor shower is going to peak. I step out on the deck and am disappointed that the sky here has clouded over again. There’ll be no shooting stars for me tonight. So I throw one more log on the fire, float the ice in my glass with whiskey and read until I can’t keep my eyes open. Emerson writes, “Nature, as we know her, is no saint.”
On our second visit to the Redwoods in as many weeks Pak and I have a similar cabin, small and rustic although very comfortable. We lounge in front of the fire happy to be together again so soon after our last trip. Usually we go eight months or a year without visiting each other. We are feeling pretty happy.
It’s colder than it was last time but the mountain is again uncrowded. Which is why we love Badger Pass. This day Pak has his telemark skis and I remember watching him from the lift as he made long graceful turns. I will never be that good having reached, I think, the peak of my snowboarding talent. As usual we cram in as many runs as we can only taking short breaks for snacks and Guinness. The wind blows harder than it did durning the storm of our last trip but we find in all the excitement and joy we don’t get cold. Our good gear helps a bit also.
After another of Pak’s multi course dinners we sit out in the dark on our deck that overlooks the Merced River sipping tea and whiskey as we listen to the water flow. Stars flicker above the pines in the Sierra winter air. We are bundled up in our warmest fleece and down jackets and we stay warm for quite a while.
What do we talk about? I’m sure, like we always do, we can’t help but notice how lucky we are. Young, healthy, handsome, but not rich. We have no idea what’s in front of us. It turned out to be quite a lot. And for the most part our luck has stayed steady. And what bumps in the road we had we managed to weather with no small amount of grace and guts. When the cold finally gets to us we go back to the fire and the warm room instantly makes us exhausted.
In the morning after breakfast we take a quick walk to the pond where we swim in summer. Today ice creeps out from the shore but the center current is swift. And cold. Our time together in the Sierras slips by as elusively as the mountain lion that is said to live near Wawona Dome.
My original plan today was to x-country ski for a few hours and then head back to Santa Barbara. Hasting’s Hideaway is booked tonight so I had to check-out. Yesterday Pak texted me that because of the storm of a few days ago Badger Pass would be postponing its opening day, the Glacier Point Road was still under a few feet of snow. Being in no hurry to get home I went online and booked a room at The Narrow Gauge Inn and decided to spend the day in the Valley and have dinner in Fish Camp.
It was slow going above 5000 feet the road being icy and there were occasional snow drifts. I was the only car on the road until I caught up with a delivery truck descending from Chinquapin. Just before the tunnel at the famous vista point the world turned white and icy. The storm had hit the Valley hard. The road was slippery but I never put the Jeep into four-wheel-drive because I could only go about 10 mph. The trees were ice coated and it was like being in a blueish eerie underwater world. The sun wouldn’t rise above the rocks until late morning.
I parked at Curry Village, bundled up and started to walk toward Happy Isle. The cold silence was beautiful. I stood under the pines and watched snow and ice gently fall from the upper branches. Occasionally a large clump would come loose and crash to the ground with a loud swoosh. Ravens watched with their usual keen attention.
The road past the tents and campgrounds was still closed and I didn’t see another person until I got to the Merced River and the sign pointing to the Mist Trail. The boulders midstream were snow covered, white dots in the fast flowing dark water.
I started up the Mist Trail sections of which were pure ice where the snowmelt froze overnight. I could have used skates at certain spots. There was only one really tricky place where I had to pull myself up by handholding the rocks trailside.
I heard a small avalanche from the direction of Glacier Point but couldn’t see anything through the trees. When I topped out at an overview looking back to Yosemite Falls I stopped for a rest. The sun had made it over the rock walls and the trees started to drip ice melt and more and more branches dislodged their burdens of accumulated snow. It sounded like it was raining. A load bigger than a basket ball landed perfectly on the back of my neck. I had to laugh as I untucked my shirt and shook out the crispy snow. Onward and upward.
I made it to the bridge that looked up river to Vernal Falls which was still in the shade but Liberty Cap higher and beyond was glowing white in the morning sunshine. The sky a blue I’ve only seen on Sierra winter days. I relax here for a while again enjoying the solitude and the Merced rushing under me. Like the Mariposa Grove, on summer days there will be hundreds of people here. I cannot ever imagine joining that crowd after spoiling myself on a morning like this. Although as I have said on so many enjoyable solo hikes, It’d be more rewarding if Pak and the family could’ve joined me. I have also decided I like the Park better in winter.
I go a bit higher up the trail until I reach the closed gate. Too dangerous and slick past here and I happily turn around knowing full well the limits of my endurance.
On the way down I slowly navigate all the ice patches and only end up on my ass once with no real harm done. By the time I made it back to Happy Isle the sun is hitting the tops of the pines and there is a constant water drip, a soothing song like a steady late summer rain in the Adirondacks.
Curry Village is empty, I’m the only one in the gear shop. I look for Christmas gifts but nothing catches my eye nor does anything later on in the other store full of junk. I head over to the Ahwahnee only to find an hour wait for lunch so I eat a Cliff Bar and pay the Ansel Adams Gallery a visit. Even after all these years the original prints hanging on the walls are masterpieces. His eye for beauty so original and precise. I wish I had the 25 grand for a photo of a storm that the amazing artist developed and printed himself. I stare at it for a long time.
Outside by the post office I notice the payphone that I called Isabel on in 1989 is still there. She gave me John Muir’s Yosemite, which I still have, when I was 10 or 11. So on my first visit I had to tell her that I was here.
Yosemite Cemetery has not been shoveled so I walk through the snow to Galen Clark’s grave. He carved the stone a few years before he died. Unfortunately I left my flask of Stagecoach in the jeep so I gave Mr. Clark a tip of my hat. He wrote:
“There seems to be in human nature, a certain amount of innate ‘cussedness’ which ever and anon will assert its power, and give trouble to the wisest rulers, and neither the people doing business in Yosemite, or the tourists visiting here seem to be an exception to this general rule.”
He was also ahead of his time by insisting that the Yosemite Grant should not be managed for profit. He’d probably shit his pants if he saw the trash for sale in the gift shop.
The dates on his gravestone — 1814-1910.
In the meadow across the road from El Capitan a thin fog hovers a few feet off the ground, a long barely opaque cloud. I walked out and looked for climbers on the face but couldn’t see any. Perhaps it was too soon after the storm. The milky mist shifts and shimmers in the late afternoon sun. It is already getting dark as I drive again through snow and ice covered trees, the road cave-like. At the last view before the tunnel the Valley is already shaded and the sky a pale blue slowly going grey against the dark green of the pines, the white of the snow and the slate granite of the domes. Wispy clouds have appeared above the peaks. The silence is massive.
The drive to Fish Camp was slow going, the road icy. It was well after dark when I reached the Narrow Gauge. My room was austere but warm and I was glad the restaurant was open so I didn’t have to backtrack to the Tenaya Lodge for dinner. I sat at the bar and had a piece of fresh salmon and a local pale ale. I took a whiskey back to the room but before going in I looked for meteors until I got cold. The night is clear but after fifteen minutes of no luck I gave up. However, Mars is in retrograde and shines a brilliant red in the east. I read Emerson for a few minutes and then, exhausted, turned off the bedside lamp.
This morning I called down for a late checkout being in no hurry to get back to Santa Barbara. It’s a not so rare feeling these days. I wrote my journal, listened to Charles Lloyd, and woolgathered. Sometime after noon I started the drive home.
Travelouge
Essays — Ralph Waldo Emerson
The California Days of Ralph Waldo Emerson — Brian C. Wilson
Galen Clark Yosemite Guardian — Shirley Sargent
Travels — Pat Metheny Group
Christmas Songs — Trygve Seim
Vintage Yosemite Songs — Thomas Bopp
And You And I — Symphonic Yes — Yes
Big Sur — Charles Lloyd
No comments:
Post a Comment