Yosemite National Park, CA

What can possibly beat that view?!?

Yosemite National Park is iconic for a reason.

After settling into our beautiful campsite at Wawona — which, we were notified, would not have flush bathrooms or potable water until the end of the week, and so it suddenly seemed a tad less beautiful — we drove toward Yosemite Valley on Wawona Road (Hwy 41). This road went toe-to-toe with the last exit stretch from Death Valley National Park in the “Heart-Attack-Causing Index”: winding, long, steep, with sections that induced stomach-churning for lack of protective barriers from sheer drops — for 19 very long miles. Many sections had the triple combo: steep 7% downwards grade, hairpin turns, vertical drops, all at the same time. I give one star to the civil engineer who approved this design. (Note in the photos below that as a car is turning, the road itself seems to disappear into thin air!)

Our sense of controlled terror was overcome only by the grandeur of what was at the other side of the Wawona Tunnel.

We came out of the darkness into one of the most spectacular views we’ve experienced so far in our travels: an expansive panorama of Yosemite Valley encompassing the massive profile of El Capital, the gorgeous Brideveil Falls, and Half Dome demurely in the back. They aroused awe and wonder — awesome in the true sense of the word.

We drove around the loop in the valley to orient ourselves, but the closer views of the waterfalls, meadows and rock formations left a sense of over-stimulation and sensory overload — there was just too much to admire. And seeing El Capitan up close just added more heft to the sense of incredulity at Alex Honnold’s climb of its rock face without any gear (see documentary Free Solo).

We stopped by the visitor center to do our usual — chat with the rangers, buy a couple of stickers, stamp my journal — and went back to the overlook at Tunnel View to hang out in our hammock. We could have stayed there for hours. Unfortunately, the grandeur of the view did not inoculate us from the scary drive back to our campground.

Despite its distance from the main attractions of Yosemite Valley, we loved Wawona campground: we were right next to the South Fork Merced River, in sites that were well spaced among the trees. The winter snowfall along with natural cycles must have led to fallen trees and broken branches, which the park service collected, chopped and helpfully placed next to the various fire rings around the campground.

I’m sure it’s of no significance whatsoever that the first fire we have ever enjoyed in a camp site has been when wood was free.

***

We drove to the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias. (Blessedly, it did not require a drive on Wawona Road.)

The road to the grove, usually serviced by shuttle buses, was closed to vehicles because of winter damage from the massive storms this season, but visitors were allowed to walk the shuttle route (about 2 miles) to access the grove and enjoy the trees.

As with anything branded “Yosemite”, the road itself was steep. Tourists of all ages, countries, and languages were trying to make the best of what was basically a hike up an asphalt hill. We saw young couples hand-in-hand; families with young kids and their grandparents; groups of friends. We saw people annoyingly walking on the right side of the road (were they British?). We saw a young kid having a meltdown and hanging onto his dad who was already carrying an even younger child on a backpack contraption. We saw a couple carrying hiking poles — to a hike on asphalt? How silly!

As soon as we arrived at the entrance of Mariposa Grove, I silently and sincerely apologized to the couple with the hiking poles since they had obviously gotten the memo that many of the nice paths of the grove were covered in several feet of snow. And whatever was not covered by snow was covered in melting snow, making the whole enterprise wet and cold.

The trees didn’t seemed bothered one bit.

One of the most interesting facts I learned by reading a posted sign was that this particular species of redwood — Sequoiadendron giganteum — grew a thick bark that protected the live tree in case of fires: the thick outer layer did not catch and in most instances the fire died or moved on before the bark burned or gave way. (Later, in our campfire, we witnessed the effectiveness of this method as the log with a thick bark layer just refused to burn.) The trees also dropped their lower branches as a protective measure since the lower branches — with younger tender leaves — would catch and burn more easily. All these were astounding examples of the evolutionary adaptations made by the giant sequoias.

The biggest attractions of the grove were nicknamed “The Grizzly Bear”, the largest sequoia in the park, and the “California Tunnel Tree,” pretty self-explanatory. (Try to note the people in the pictures above for a sense of the scale and the massive size of the trees.)

By this point, we had been hiking on snow for more than an hour. In fact, by the Grizzly Bear, a young girl was whining loudly to her mother about her drenched socks. I had wanted to complete the loop, snow-covered trail be damned, but N. made some noises that echoed the complaints of the young girl. We turned around.

***

The drive to Yosemite Valley seemed a tad — just a tiny tad — less scary today.

First stop was a short walk to the bottom of Lower Yosemite Falls. It was easy to see — and feel — the scale of the snowfall this winter, as evidenced by the impressive amount of water and spray from the falls. I learned that waterfall spray from melted snow was icy cold. Who would have guessed it?

We next hopped on our bikes and decided to round the valley on two wheels. We didn’t get too far because we ended up stopping every few yards to snap a picture. We decided to get back on four wheels and drive back to our campground before it got too dark. We would save the two wheels for another day.

***

A beautiful Saturday. As warned by the National Park Service (“Traffic congestion is common in Yosemite Valley, especially during spring and summer and on weekends”), Wawona Road towards the valley was packed: traffic was moving but cars and RVs made a substantial-sized caravan.

And then it happened.

N. was driving a tad fast and too close to the car ahead of us and the van’s red collision warning light flashed menacingly and the van rattled to get our attention. Have I mentioned that Wawona Road was hell-a-scary? I yelped and grabbed my seat until my knuckles turned white. (The image that flashed in my mind was that last scene in the movie “Thelma and Louise”.) We drove in silence until we reached the valley. That’s when I completely lost my marbles and complained testily to N. and cried at the same time. It took another good half an hour for my fear to dissipate and some more time beyond that for me to feel like talking to him again.

Despite this very inauspicious beginning to the day, we actually had a marvelous time riding our Bromptons on the bike path around the valley — it was simply the best way to explore the area. We were able to stop anywhere we felt like — to enjoy a view, take a photo, eat a snack.

N. drove slowly and carefully on the way back to our campground.

***

If the weather had not cooperated today, we most likely would have stayed in our campsite and been lazy. As it was, it was forecast to be a clear gorgeous day, with temps in the upper 60’s, too good to waste. A perfect day for a hike.

(Did I mention that no matter how many times we had already driven on Wawona Road, the road was scary every single time? Some enterprising travel blogger needs to put together a website with information about entrance/exit roads to each of the national parks. By my count, the roads to/from/around The Great Smoky Mountains, Death Valley, and now Yosemite should come with a surgeon general’s warning. Also for the record: no matter how many times we stop by the scenic point at Tunnel View, that first view out of the tunnel is phenomenal. Every. Single. Time.)

The goal today was to hike to Columbia Rock and beyond. According to my trails app, we were to park close to Camp 4 and make our way to the trailhead. There, the park service had posted warnings to hikers, encouraging them to stop at Columbia Rock because of snow and damaged trails beyond that. As we stopped to take pictures by the trail signs, another couple, also looking at the signs, looked tentative and approached us.

“So, do you know which way up for Half Dome?”

“Oh, it’s this trail to Columbia Rock. My app says it’s about 2.2 miles… ”

“It’s not a loop?”

“No, it’s an out-and-back. You just come back the same way you go in, so about 4.4 miles total…”

“Honey, you’ll need more wine!”

This last statement was directed at his wife who, I then noticed, was not carrying a backpack or a water bottle but an insulated wine cup — at 10:45 in the morning. N. and I left the couple to discuss the right amount of wine for such a hike and started the series of knee-crunching switchbacks.

It had been more than two months since our last proper hike, so our bodies began to send us signals to complain about the pace, the incline, the condition of the trail (rocky), the hiking poles (which we were not using efficiently to bear some of the strain), the lack of proper nutrition (a not-big-enough-breakfast). But onwards and upwards.

Because Yosemite had gotten an above-average amount of snow this winter, many of the trails around the park were still snowed out, all of which meant that any open trail was swarming with visitors. We saw many families with children (one French father seemed unimpressed by the views of the snow-capped peaks around the valley; when his wife asked rhetorically, “Isn’t it beautiful?”, he just shrugged, “Mais oui, just like in France…”). We saw casual hikers in tennis shoes and serious-looking hikers with poles and water bladders (in my opinion, a terrible name for the contraption). We saw what I can only assume was a desperate hiker in need of relief: his friends gathered around him to provide some cover while he peed into a rock wall (so henceforth I will forever hesitate before leaning into one). We saw what I guessed was a boy scout troop full of enviable energy. All along, we passed through trees that gave us tantalizing glimpses of the views below and peaks above.

Soon enough, Half Dome made its appearance through the trees; by the time we got to Columbia Rock, one could see it in all its glory, standing tall and proud over the valley below. Many hikers bartered the photo-taking task: we take yours and you take ours. The clear blue skies, the green trees and gray rocky peaks — all made for truly awe-arousing views.

I nudged N. onwards and, against his better judgment, he followed me just a bit further. We passed a few unofficial waterfalls — formed by excessive spring snowmelt — to an astoundingly close view of the Upper Yosemite Falls. We could only look up and stare in wonder. Sometimes words or even photos cannot do justice to standing in nature, feeling small and overwhelmed, grateful and alive.

We drove to the base of El Capitan to take a break and, as luck would have it, parked next to a caravan of other Class B vans belonging to climbers checking their gears: ropes, carabiners, shoes. A couple of people had high powered telescopes focused in the direction of the rock face; a small crowd was staring up. That’s when we caught sight of a few climbers making their way up El Capitan. We all gathered to express amazement at their endeavors; they looked like tiny ants on the rock face. Climbing with ropes as these climbers were doing seemed incredible enough; what Honnold did free solo would have been unbelievable without documentary proof.

We then had to deal with more terrestrial things: the van needed a dump station and input of fresh water. However, at Yosemite NP, even these mundane tasks were made just a tad more wonderful by the location of such services in what surely must be the dump station with one of the best views in the world: right under a close-up view of Half Dome. And today, the shower at Curry Village did have an attendant at the door. I asked about the fee, but he hesitated for a minute before waving us in for free. I chimed in, “You decide who gets in free by their looks, right?” (The fee was just a way for crowd control on one of the few places in the valley for campers to clean up. It was not a busy day today.)

On the drive back to our campground, back on that cursed — cursed, I tell you! — Wawona Road, we saw a small van stopped in the middle of the road — it was just sitting there with its emergency lights on, without a care to the inconvenience and possible danger causing other motorists. I did the rubber-necking thing to give the driver a hard stare when I noticed that it belonged to a touring company; my eyes then darted to the cause of their stopping: a bear cub was playing around the trees. So I can honestly report that bears do exist at Yosemite, and all their fuss about bear lockers seemed justified. (But that tour van was still annoying…)

***

We spent the morning and early afternoon working at a hotel outside park boundaries that was a source of strong cell signal. We paid for use of their facilities with an overpriced lunch.

Without the stress of driving to the valley (a post for Yosemite would not be complete without my whining about the drive on Wawona Road), I was successful in convincing N. to go for a couple of short hikes near our campground.

The first itty bitty one was on the Lower Chilnualna Falls Trail, a 0.3 miles hike to views of the waters coming down the aforementioned falls. The waters followed the laws of gravity and roared down the side of the rocks where they landed and pooled, only to gather steam and volume to drop down another layer of rocks. Wash-rinse-repeat. I tried to follow the direction on my trails app to the top of these lower falls — all that was required were a few more steps intentionally fashioned out of rocks. I was surprised when N. frowned, shook his head and would not let me go up higher. I obliged grudgingly although I could not figure out how he reconciled this cautiousness with his reckless driving on that notorious road whose name begins with “W”.

The Swinging Bridge Trail followed a path through what looked like to me like a cemetery for trees. One could see trees in all stages of decay: some looked newly felled with fresh marks of chainsaws (with the first wedge cut at an angle and the next cut for the fall); some looked as if they had been sleeping on the ground for a while, losing their thick bark; some looked as if they had been used as long bowling balls, felled and, in their falling, used to bring down other trees in their way; and some had been sawed into 3-to-4-foot sections, ready for a fireplace. I suspected the area had been razed intentionally to make space for the enlargement of a nearby private development — inside national park boundaries — of vacation rentals. Sigh. (Agent Smith’s virus speech in Matrix came to mind.)

While charming, the swinging bridge did not swing much. It looked fairly recently — and sturdily — build, over the South Fork Merced River, which looked fast enough for some white water kayaking; all that water from the Chilnualna Falls flowed here. It seems that when waters are calmer in the summer, it’s a good spot for wading and swimming, although a description in my app warned, “There is also a granite “slide” upriver of the bridge but water [?] your swimsuit, as the tough granite has been known to rip holes in some suits.” We’ve been warned.