When I contemplate
the brevity of man’s life,
I am indifferent
to worldly things: how many
are the days I spend in thought?
Ōtomo no Yakamochi
I am slightly off balance after one big dinner followed by a semi-lazy day, another big dinner and a surprise visit from Million Mile Tom with his generous supply of red wine. The semi-lazy part came yesterday afternoon after an early morning scramble up Sentinel Dome. I lounged on the couch of Jen’s cabin dog-sitting Leo, we became good friends in between naps when we took short walks around Wawona hurrying back often for beer (for me) and bacon (for Leo). Reilly, Jen and the appropriately named Wilder arrived from the valley shortly before Million Mile Tom did from Santa Barbara. A long evening of good banter, food, wine and a substantial nightcap at the Wawona Hotel convinced MM Tom to spend the night camping next to the cabin in our landlord’s yard.
So this morning after I’m dropped off at the bus stop and en route to the Mariposa Grove I am feeling like I could’ve stayed in my bed on the couch for another few hours. But, if nothing else, I am resilient. The bus is crowded, overcrowded in fact, with tourists speaking more languages than I can count. Not unusual for August in Yosemite. The bus smells like sun block, fast food, perfume, patchouli (the hippies), Doritos, vanilla (the Japanese girls), sweat, and anxiety (me). I’m a bit vertiginous.
As usual I feel rather shabby with my worn boots, battered pack and sleeveless tee-shirt as I’m surrounded by shiny sneakers and crisp white shorts and flashy neon colored daypacks. I think back to Sentinel Dome yesterday and the girl with the pink ankle-high hiking boots. The rest of her outfit was as rugged as mine, but those boots! She, with her family and friends, made it to the summit shortly after I did. They sat on a rock near where I was reading and she glanced at my book—an anthology of Japanese poetry—and I at her boots. We exchanged smiles. There are always beautiful girls on the tops of mountains. At least that has been my experience.
I wander off, already thinking about lunch and we nod goodbye to each other. (I wonder at my shyness, I wanted a picture of those boots for Ellie. What demon possess me that I always behave so well?)
Back at the jeep I finish my water and slowly pull out onto Glacier Point Road and there she is; heart crushing smile, long strong mountain girl legs, pink hiking boots. She gives me a slight wave and I smile back. I am too stupid to pull over and ask for that picture. I hear Anthony J. in my mind reminding me that we often regret those things that we did not do rather than those that we did.
After the endless eight minute ride to the grove I hop off the bus and breath deep the pine scented air. I quickly make my way to the Perimeter Trail which is in the opposite direction from the rest of the happy, squawking, excited passengers who beeline it toward the big famous trees like the Grizzly Giant and the Three Graces. Like I did yesterday at the start of my hike I put my phone on airplane mode knowing full well that the muse in the pink boots would not be calling me due to cowardice. Mine.
My theory about the number of people seen at national parks in relation to how far away from a parking lot I am holds true. I see a few couples coming back to the bus stop but after fifteen minutes when I turn to the trail that leads to the hotel and leave the grove behind I won’t see another hiker for the next 5.7 miles. I take a last glance at the sequoias, I am always in aesthetic arrest when I contemplate these grandest of living things. They are also among the oldest. I’ve never, after more than thirty years of trying, been able to take a picture of them that captures the awe I experience when in their presence.
The trail, which as far as I know has no name, winds through some sugar pines and cedars before crossing a slightly marshy flat spot. My arm rubs against something sticky on my shirt and I discover a huge blob of sap the size of a golf ball. I look up, it must have fallen from the high branches. I try to pull it off but the pitch just soaks into the cloth and stains my pack. (another scar!) My hands and shirt instantly start to collect dust, both turning brown. I wash off best I can in the damp grassy spot with a shallow puddle at its center.
The trail meanders for a while before cresting a rocky ledge and I start to lose elevation. This is an easy saunter. It’s almost all downhill through shaded forest ending up at the porch of the Wawona Hotel where cold beer is served. My dear friend and mentor, Carpenter, now gone, called it “the drinking man’s hike”.
I walk through a small burn area and am reminded that last summer, at this same time, the Washburn Fire burned through here. All of Wawona had to be evacuated and the south entrance to the park was closed. We postponed a trip because of it.
Firefighters were at their best and cut firebreaks and no structures were lost and more importantly no lives lost.
Soon I’m walking in the middle of the burn, dead trees in every direction. I travel over cinders and kick up black soot. My eyes water and I stop often in the eerie quiet to quench my thirst. No birds sing and I listen for any kind of life. The air feels heavy and ominously the sky starts to cloud over. Wawona Dome is clearly visible through the nonexistent forest. The trees still standing are charred and branchless. Fallen black logs litter the west sloping hillside.
After an hour at a turn in the path I come across a patch of low green ground cover maybe ten by ten feet. A lizard scurries across the trail and a few wary bees sluggishly move from tiny yellow flower to tiny yellow flower. From the top of a lone scared tree with all the charm of a telephone pole sings a little bird in silhouette against the sky. I smile at this small oasis. A few hundred yards more and I am again in a world from a Cormac McCarthy novel; silent, dreary, lifeless.
It’s another mile or so before I approach more greenery, scattered small scrub, and the edge between life and death becomes more blurred until I encounter a field of pungent mountain misery and the unique scents of Wawona hit me like a slug of old whiskey. Again I am in the midst of flowers and butterflies, ravens and songbirds. I notice the tracks of deer in the trailside dirt. A sign informs me that I am a mile from the hotel. And incidentally, beer.
Fantasies being wild and uncontrollable I imagine a girl wearing pink boots relaxing in one of the hotel’s white wicker chairs with views of the fountain and meadows beyond. She is sipping a martini that smells of the same juniper as the surrounding mountains. As I get to my jeep a thunderclap rips me out of my revery. The sky has turned dark and I unlace my boots and peel off my socks revealing black ashy covered feet. I am filthy. I grab a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale from my cooler and as huge raindrops start to splat from the clouds I run up to the porch and moments later the glorious summer storm hits full on. Simultaneously lightning flashes and thunderclaps echo off Wawona Dome behind the hotel. The wind shakes the tall pines on the sloping lawn.
The porch fills up with people marveling at the intensity and wildness of the sudden squall. It only takes about fifteen minutes for the deluge to pass westward and blue skies start to break up the thunderheads that still linger. Shortly the sun shines through and the world is refreshed and there is a novelty of newness. I finish my delicious, well deserved beer and am lucky to find out that I can take an early check-in.
I am directed to the Moore Cottage and follow the path behind the main building. I note a plaque reading that my accommodations were constructed in 1894 and named after Edwin Moore, a partner of Galen Clark, the first caretaker of the Mariposa Grove. My room is smallish and rustic but tidy and comfortable. The bathroom is, however, huge. Obviously a converted sitting room from the days before indoor plumbing.
I treat myself to another beer and to a refreshing cool shower blackening a cloth with my accumulated grime.
I start to read by the window and then hear piano music drifting up from the hotel parlor. Last night the desk clerk told us that the treasure who is Thomas Bopp would not be playing this week. Curiously I walked down to discover to my great delight that Thomas was indeed at the grand piano. I take a chair and plan on settling in for the evening. I don’t think I’ve missed a summer in thirty years where I haven’t listened to him play classic jazz standards and tell his stories of old Yosemite complete with camp songs from a hundred and fifty years ago. He is a musicologist and a park historian. There are only five or six other people in the room yet we are all rapt with joy. Thomas’s repertoire includes Cole Porter, Johnny Mercer, Noel Coward, interspersed with his witty commentary on the less than savory lifestyles of some of the singers and composers. I always learn something new sitting here and tonight he sings some Dave Frishberg songs. I’ll look him up when I get home.
Thomas takes a break and I go over to the dining room and there is exactly one small table available. I have a good piece of salmon. The Wawona has never been known for great food or prompt service. ( I sat in the lounge for over an hour and the waitress ignored the room completely) But my waiter was nice and the bartender remembered me from last night so I was given a hefty pour.
My check comes as I hear the piano starting again across the lobby. I freshen my whiskey and find my chair as I left it. More jazz and Thomas and I trade some stories and he loves hearing about my old friend Jean Benjamin who learned to play Skylark from Hoagy Carmichael himself. The rendition I heard tonight was certainly on par with Jean’s. He plays a few more Hoagy songs and several from Cole Porter; I Concentrate on You, Miss Otis Regrets and I’ve Got You Under My Skin. Soon it’s ten o’clock, closing time. Thomas plays a few minutes past curfew so as to complete a one-song-leads-to-another story.
We hope to do this again next year but I sense a less than confident assurance from the great piano player. I don’t know why I felt this, something in our conversation about change, health and time passing that catches me off guard. As I walk back to the Moore Cottage the breeze in the pines on this moonless summer night carries more than its usual hint of melancholy.
Bibliography
Traditional Japanese Poetry
An Anthology -- Translated By Steven D. Carter
Discography
Hoagy Sings Carmichael -- Hoagy Carmichael
The Complete Cole Porter Songbooks -- Various Artists
Noel and Cole -- Noel Coward and Cole Porter
