Yosemite in the spring – Heaven

Dogwood in bloom

Faced with a surprise extra day off this week, I made last minute arrangements to pay a visit to Yosemite National Park.  I left Alameda early Tuesday with my ever-present cup of Peets and arrived at Hodgdon Meadow Campground just before noon. A quick set up of camp, lunch and then I drove to Yosemite Valley to wander aimlessly for a few hours.

Bridalveil Falls

I tend to avoid the throngs and hordes of tourists that invade the park in spring and summer, but I figured that with it being before Memorial Day, I’d be relatively safe. And besides, there is a reason that the park attracts so many visitors.

Yosemite Falls – Merced River

And since most of the tourists confine themselves to picnic areas, scenic turnouts and Yosemite Village, solitude is easily found on the hiking trails.

Trail near the Merced River

For a few minutes, I even summoned some bravery and went to Yosemite Village myself. As I set up camp earlier, I discovered I’d forgotten a few items (paper towels!) and made it out of the store safely, with no bloodshed. I even treated myself to a chocolate Haagen-Dazs bar. Even so, the area wasn’t as bad as I remembered from my previous village adventure in 1998.

Upper Yosemite Falls

I drove back to my campsite for a dinner of ribeye steak and grilled corn on the cob (not pictured). When the sun dipped below the trees and the air cooled I started a campfire, smoked a cigar and waited for the stars to reveal themselves. I retired to my little one-man tent at 11:30 and was up at 5:30 to break camp and return to Yosemite Valley for a hike to Glacier Point via the 4-mile trail. (It’s actually 4.7 miles now, having been lengthened from its original distance).

Blue Flax (I think) along the trail

With Upper Yosemite Falls rumbling from the springtime thaw, I was torn between doing the Glacier Point hike or doing the Falls. Since I’d done the Falls hike twice before and hadn’t done any others, I decided on Glacier Point. And as always, with a Mt. Whitney hike facing me in three months, I can count on it being good training for my legs. Since I got an early start (a little before 8:00), I saw almost nobody on the trail as I ascended.

4-mile Trail

The above photo shows the first patch of snow I came across. At this point I was at about 7,000′, having climbed 3,000′ from the valley.

Yosemite Falls viewed from 4-mile Trail

View from Glacier Point

I made it to the end of the trail at Glacier Point a little after 10:00, two hours after starting from the valley. The photo above shows Half Dome, surrounding peaks in the distance and Nevada Falls (lower right). Like my trail book warns, the only bad part of the Glacier Point hike is that upon reaching the top, one is faced with a souvenir shop, tour buses and yes, more tourists. There were a good number and several tried my patience, especially the terribly overweight one struggling up a paved access trail complaining to her boyfriend while munching a bag of Doritos. After eating my lunch, I couldn’t get back on the trail fast enough.

I was off the trail by 12:30 and as much as I wanted to stay in the valley, the high country was calling me. The National Park Service had just opened Tioga Road a few days before, and I wanted to take advantage of an early passing through the eastern Sierras via Tioga Pass.

Tuolumne Meadows

Ellery Lake (elev. 9538′)

An April hike on Mt. Diablo

This gallery contains 11 photos.

Taking advantage of the spectacular mid-week weather and mild temperatures, I paid my first visit of the year to Mt. Diablo, taking a break from Mt. Tam. Of course, at this point, since I’m in training mode for a Mt. … Continue reading →

“Honey, That’s a great cup of coffee”

Springtime on Mt. Tamalpais. Oak branch on the Dipsea Trail, 2012

Good evening fellow hikers and mountain people, springtime is upon us here in Northern California, and I look forward to a wonderful season of hiking, both locally and in my beloved Sierras.  Today I enjoyed a wonderful hike to the top of  Mt. Tam from the Mountain Home Inn/Throckmorton Fire House. Then I continued on to West Point Inn and back to my truck via the Nora and Matt Davis trails. Tomorrow: Mt. Diablo (and photos!)

Today I share an excerpt from ‘The Mount Whitney Journals – Book I – 1998′. For all of my writing about the topic of coffee in the six books/chapters, I can almost subtitle the book ‘The Coffee Manifesto’. I do love my coffee. Because this is my first trip to Mt. Whitney, and I’ve done almost no camping in my life as of 1998, I don’t own a stove (my companions, Mike Gibbons and Mike Galli don’t either). This means that once we get to our campsite at the Whitney Portal, we’ll be drinking only water and Gatorade. Minutes before leaving the town of Lone Pine for the 13-mile drive to the campground, I walk out of Joseph’s Bi-rite, look down Main Street and see a coffee house. I experience the same feeling that Bedouins feel upon seeing an oasis in the desert. 

A proper espresso (Nice, France, 2000)

THE MOUNT WHITNEY JOURNALS – Book I – 1998

Thursday morning, August 6, 1998. Lone Pine, CA

Caffeine Hannah’s, a block south of Whitney Portal Road, has a big sign in the window advertising espresso and cappuccino. I am skeptical. I’ve been led astray many times before by quaint and not-so-quaint coffee joints announcing proudly that they carry so-called ‘gourmet’ roasts, blends or brews, any trick in the book to lure some coffee-chugging-Starbucks (or Peets)-refugee-shmuck in and drop a buck-and-a-half on some foul, watered-down Folgeresque liquid. In spite of past disappointments, to the consternation of Galli, who’s been preaching the gospel of hydration (and the avoidance of diuretics), I walk down the street and decide to give Caffeine Hannah’s a chance. At least the owners spelled ‘espresso’ correctly. Had the sign read ‘expresso’, I would’ve done an about face.

As I enter, the place looks promising, as though it has been transplanted from downtown Berkeley or Santa Cruz. I can almost visualize Abbie Hoffman or a group of college students sitting cross-legged on the floor, carrying on lofty discussions as Ravi Shankar plays on the hi-fi. Instead there are four other customers inside, a mom and her three kids, not a tie-dyed counter-culture subversive in sight. As I step in line behind the family, the mother politely allows me to go ahead of them while they decide what they want.

I’ve just stepped forward and ordered a large decaf brewed coffee, when I hear the door open and Gibbons walks in smiling, also throwing his hydration cares to the wind. As Mike approaches, we look at each other, shrug and start laughing. It’s a mutual admission that this is what and who we are. I envision Galli on the mountain tomorrow, standing over mine and Gibbons’ bodies, collapsed and desiccated on the side of the trail, a mere two hundred yards from the summit, a condescending smirk on his face, admonishing us as the two of us lay prostate and delirious from dehydration, gasping and from our sun-blistered lips, with final anguished and raspy whispers, as we utter the word ‘Sumatra’.

It’s a risk I knowingly accept and embrace. For now, I’m only concerned with the cup of coffee I have in hand, hoping it won’t be too offensive. I take the cup to the condiment station, and upon inspection, it passes the first sensory test, visual. It looks adequately strong without appearing oily or cloudy, or looking as though it’s been sitting in a pot since the Nixon administration. The second test, smell, is likewise successfully passed. Next is a secondary visual test, the reaction to the addition of cream. Again the brew is up to the challenge, turning a rich terra cotta orange-brown. Finally, it’s time for the only test that matters. As I swallow the first sip, a smile spreads across my face as if I’ve just recognized an old friend. It’s a fantastic cup of coffee. While not quite the caliber of Peet’s, it’s far superior to Starbucks, and just slightly above Spinelli’s in San Francisco and New World Coffee on Lower Broadway in Manhattan. It rates as the biggest surprise of the trip so far.

The evolution of my Whitney coffee experience. Blue Bottle and Milanos from trip #6 in 2010

(note: sadly, Caffeine Hannah’s in Lone Pine is no more. While driving back through the eastern Sierras in the summer of 2000, I stopped in Lone Pine and was saddened to see a real estate office in its place. But good coffee can still be found in town at Espresso Parlor on Main Street)

Turlington vs Rossellini – A Battle of Supermodels

Lone Pine Creek

A rainy Bay Area day, excellent weather to catch up on errands, clean the house, and do some blog writing and more work on ‘The Mount Whitney Journals’. Today a return to 1998, trip #1 with Mike Gibbons and Mike Galli. On this first trip, we only acclimated for less than a day at our campsite at the Whitney Portal. It was a wonderful first trip, and like many people, I now look most forward to time in front of the campfire at night under the stars. 

Gibbons (l) and Galli (r) (Alabama Hills)

THE MOUNT WHITNEY JOURNALS – Book I – 1998

Thursday, August 6, 1998                                                                                                               As mentioned, we talk about things sublime and we talk about things that are less so. As Galli starts to speak, I silently pray that he is not about to regale us again with stories about the world of insects. Instead he proposes the question, “If you were stranded on an island for the rest of your life, and you could have one woman, one meal, and five albums or CDs–8-tracks in my case–which ones would you take?” I respond first and, like a football captain choosing sides for a pick-up game, quickly choose supermodel Christy Turlington, although I fear that someone like that might have difficulty coping with the solitude, and with being away from New York City fashion society. But I figure that if she ever gets an attitude or gets mouthy on me, I could trade her sorry ass in for Isabella Rossellini faster than you can say “Revlon”. Rossellini, more mature and well grounded, I’m certain would know her place. I realize that it would probably be much more sensible if I pick a more rugged, low- maintenance, outdoorsy type along the lines of Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley character from the “Alien” movies, but only the ones where she still had her hair. (The shaved head of ‘Alien 3’ was not a good look). However, since it’s just make believe, I stay with Turlington as my starter with Rossellini as first alternate.

Oddly, I put more thought into my choice of food and music than into my choice of a companion for the rest of my life. Perhaps, this gives me a clue as to why I’m still single at the age of 38. For my meal, I choose the 22-ounce prime Porterhouse steak from Il Fornaio, although upon being reminded that I’ll be eating this same meal everyday for the rest of my life, I almost change my mind. But in the end, I figure that no matter which meal I choose, I’ll tire of it eventually. I also figure that by eating all that red meat, I’ll get fat and my cholesterol level will skyrocket, allowing me to mercifully die of a massive coronary at precisely the time my five music choices are boring me to tears and Turlington, by now, also fat because of the same diet, is driving me up the wall complaining about the same old routine and same old food, and now Rosellini won’t touch me with a 10, 20 or 30-foot pole because I’ve let myself go and I now weigh 400 pounds. So to make a long story only slightly less long, I stay with the Porterhouse.

Dumb and Dumber…and then there’s me

Today, a reading from the Holy Gospel of Stupidity 3:17. I wish I could blame my tale on altitude, or dehydration. I like to think we all have moments when we look in the mirror and say, “If I were any dumber, they’d shoot me.” If you’re one of the lucky ones who’s never had an episode like this, I applaud you. Be forewarned, when you leave the room, I’m going to mutter ‘liar’ under my breath. This excerpt is from my 2010 trip. At this point, with my Mt. Whitney trip five weeks away, I’m still in training mode and I’ve driven to Yosemite Valley to hike Upper Yosemite Falls. From the valley floor it’s 3.6 miles to the top with elevation gain of 2700′.

"Mommy!, I just got winged by a Nikon"

THE MOUNT WHITNEY JOURNALS – Book VI – 2010                                                       June 24, 2010, Upper Yosemite Falls. During yesterday’s hike, I took some spectacular images, and when I got to the top, in keeping with earlier ‘questionable’ decisions, I gave some bystanders and myself a thrill that nearly cemented my induction into the Idiot Hall of Fame.  Along a viewing platform cut into a granite wall at the top, there’s a railing to keep hikers and morons safe from the 2,000+’ drop. On the other side of the rail there’s about an 8 to 10 foot shelf before the drop. From behind this rail I was able to catch a glimpse of the water cascading to the valley floor. Dissatisfied with my photos, and convinced I could get a better angle if I crawled out a few more feet onto the ledge, I decided to duck under the rail with my camera. In my enthusiasm, as I took off my pack and hat, the camera strap became tangled, came over my head unexpectedly and fell forward onto the ledge. Because of a lucky bounce or backspin, the camera stopped about three feet short of the precipice. The looks on the faces of those who witnessed it spoke volumes. They looked at me as though I was the stupidest person on the planet and I was in no position to argue[1].

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[1] I looked up synonyms for the word ‘idiot’ on my iMac Dictionary application and as I read through them, every one of them would be apt descriptions of the camera episode: fool, ass, halfwit, dunce, dolt, ignoramus, cretin, moron, imbecile, simpleton, dope, ninny, nincompoop, chump, dimwit, dumbo, dummy, dum-dum, loon, dork, sap, jackass, blockhead, jughead, bonehead, knucklehead, fathead, numbskull, numbnuts, dumb-ass, doofus, clod, dunderhead, ditz, lummox, dipstick, thickhead, meathead, meatball, woodenhead, airhead, pinhead, lamebrain, peabrain, birdbrain, jerk, nerd, donkey, nitwit, twit, boob, twerp, schmuck, bozo, turkey, chowderhead, dingbat

Was it worth it?

My Reincarnation as a Shrub

Today, a short excerpt from ‘The Mount Whitney Journals’. I’m recovering from minor surgery and it’s driving me a bit crazy to be a semi-invalid.  My highlight for today will be a 4-block walk to the park with a cup of coffee and my laptop. By next week, I should be ready for a short jaunt on Mt. Tam and some longer blog entries.

Today’s excerpt is from 2009. I’m on the way to June Lake where I’ll camp for the night.

THE MOUNT WHITNEY JOURNALS – Book V – 2009

August 4, 2009. I’m well inside Yosemite somewhere between White Wolf and Porcupine Flat campgrounds. I park in a turnout to take a lunch break among the granite, pines and aspens. As always, I can’t resist my boyish urge to throw rocks at defenseless trees. I don’t believe this will send me straight to hell when I die, but it might add a day or two to my stay in purgatory. Unless, of course, humankind, in our arrogance, has the concept of God, the universe and the afterlife wrong. Given man’s track record, this is likely. For all I know, God is an oak tree the size of Jupiter. If that’s the case, then my eternal soul is screwed and will be summarily dropkicked across the galaxy to the cheers of all the trees I ever hit. Or I might just be brought back as an urban tree or shrub for poodles and chihuahuas to pee on.

Where’s the paper aisle? Why we need a Walmart on Mt. Whitney

Egads! I’ve run out of paper… Possibly the first time I’ve ever used ‘egads’ in my writing. Next time I’ll try ‘Good Grief”. Somewhere, Samuel L. Jackson is covering his ears from my potty mouthed-ness and David Mamet is blushing.

Today, an excerpt from ‘The Mount Whitney Journals – Book V’. It’s the afternoon before my 2-day backpack trip on the mountain and I’ve discovered I’m out of writing paper. This is like a photographer running out of film…when we used film. Luckily, I have The Whitney Portal Store near the trailhead, a mile away. 

Sierra Angelica at sunrise

THE MOUNT WHITNEY JOURNALS – Book V- 2009

August 6, 2009. Upon my discovery, I rummaged through my glove compartment for any spare sheets or scraps of paper. I feared I’d be forced to write in the margins of my 4Runner owner’s manual or on the backs of paycheck stubs and old receipts. After a fruitless search, I decided on a trip to the store. If I were I a little more MacGyver-ish, I could make my own paper out of pine needles, dead branches and trout guts; a little more Rambo-ish, and I could carve notes and journal entries into my flesh with a knife.

At the Portal Store, I searched the shelves for anything that might serve as a journal, but only found postcards. This could work if I bought a handful of them. It’s not like I’d be writing Paradise Lost or some such epic saga while on the mountain. In the end, I simply asked the clerk if I could have several sheets of printer paper or something along those lines. Initially, she gave me a look like I was asking for a kidney or speaking Portuguese. But eventually I made her understand that I just needed two or three blank sheets of paper, lined or unlined, and I’d be willing to pay well above market value for them. While she searched the back office, I picked out a couple of souvenir Mt. Whitney fridge magnets to buy so I wouldn’t feel as guilty about panhandling for paper. She returned a minute later with a half dozen sheets of printer paper. I tried to pay for them, but she gave me another ‘look’.