A "Non-Inspiring" Yosemite Recap
Nearly 30 years ago, Noah Gallagher of the band Oasis once crooned, "Don't look back in anger." I'd like to make a revision to "Don't look forward in fear."
We're heading into our last 20 days before we head up to Mt. Shasta's base camp. This time in 3 weeks, I'll waking up at midnight, readying for an arduous hike to the summit. The most frequent question I've been getting the last few weeks? "Are you ready?"
Put simply, I am not -- at least, I don't feel like I am. I'm terrified. I write these words with a pair of sprained ankles and sprained arches after hiking 20 miles through Yosemite last weekend. The trio of Ben Gay, heating pads and massage guns have become familiar friends. "Do not walk" has been my mantra. Not the inspiring Yosemite recap opening you were expecting eh?
One of the things I love about Yosemite is that no trip is the same. You can go up the same trail, but each year, the experience is different. This trip marked my 3rd time hiking Mist Trail and the John Muir Trail. The first and second times were for dry, drought-impacted hikes; in all honesty, we were there for the resort pool 2-miles outside of the park. This time -- the third go-around -- brought historic snow melt waterfalls, floods, gushing streams, and the possibility of summitting Half Dome.
What was clear from the start was that summitting Half Dome was not possible. To do so, you have to have a permit to climb the cables (pic here), and the cables are down for the season due to snow. Getting to the top was possible, just not "permitted." Our group of 9 settled on a goal of reaching Sub Dome (the area before), which was still 8800 ft high.
From the head of Mist Trail, the difference historic rainfall makes is apparent. Crowds gather at every corner, shooting video of every newly formed waterfall from afar. I marvel instead at how easy the hike feels so far, whereas 2 years ago, I was heaving up the paved trail. At Vernal Bridge (1.6 miles in), we experience a gushing river instead of the trickle of a stream I remembered. It's there that we get our first indication of what the rest of the hike will be: wet.
Hikers descend from the top of Vernal Falls drenched in water. It's all thrilling. We climb up the stone steps with cool water spraying at us from the left. While others prepared with plastic ponchos, we literally soak it all in. Our first dry reprieve we have is near the top, where we hug against the mountain up a narrow staircase and a flimsy metal railing. At the top, survivors of the first climb bask across the rocks as if the mountain was a beach. Socks, boots, and bodies lie out in the sun, drying off and getting tan.
Our next stop is Nevada Falls (~6000 ft in elevation). One mile is 1000 ft in elevation climb. We zig-zag through flooded trails, climb over rocks, and get sprayed once again with water. At the Nevada Falls rest stop, we peel off from our first group when two become ill from altitude sickness and one's shoe breaks. Six of us carry on to our last milestone, Sub-Dome.
At this point, the trail becomes far emptier. The best trail markers are the hikers coming down. Descending hikers warn us of perils: an incoming thunderstorm, black bear tracks, swimming rattle snakes, hidden rattle snakes, rattle snakes out in the open... Fear sets in. The threat of snakes drives two others to turn back and head down. We're a skeleton crew of four now.
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The four of us start the last elevation climb. As we crisscross switch backs, the storm brews ominously overhead. The trail has already been battered by months of rain. It's evident -- at least to me -- from the flooded paths, fallen trees, and debris that we wouldn't do too well moving on. "Anyone thinking they could go up open-faced stone in the middle of a thunderstorm is foolish," a passing hiker remarks.
At the first crack of thunder, I'm spooked.
Going back to Mr. Gallagher, why not look forward in fear? Fear has dominated my Climb training. Fear of failure. Fear of heights. Fear of snakes. Fear of thunder. Fear of death. Fear is what led me to run down from 7000 ft in elevation (75% of the way to Half Dome; three-eighths, get it?) down a mountain, trip, and roll two ankles. The funny thing about injuring yourself on the trail is that you have to keep going in most cases. There's no burly Saint Bernard hurdling with a cask of warm ale to drag you down the mountain. You have to keep going until you reach to the bottom.
We hobble on. We attempt to take a drier short cut that avoids the waterfalls, yet neglect to see the "ice wall" written on the AllTrails map. What's an ice wall in 70 degree weather? A ice waterfall. What's the only way out? Through... that is unless you were brave enough to walk across the stone partition where the other side was straight cliff. While the picture does not do it justice, we plow 15 ft through with ice cold water up to our shins and falling on our heads.
I wish I could end this post with some epic conclusion, but I can't. The freezing, wet descent takes another 2-3 hours, and we gratefully are met by a shuttle bus driver. "Never in my life have I been so happy to take the bus," Fabian (my fellow Climb against the Odds team member) utters.
Days later, my feet are still strained. While I'm proud we made it further than any other previous attempt, the hike honestly felt a bit like a step back. I'm not sure if my feet can heal even for this weekend's practice run -- or heck, even by June 12th. I beat myself up knowing that my injuries were avoidable and that I shouldn't have let my own fears overcome my sensibilities. I've landed at a vulnerable checkpoint. Afterall, I chose to run down the mountain scared, and now I have to adjust to training to my injuries.
We've got 3 more weeks to go until the big Climb. With eyes forward, here we go.
Lessons Learned:
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