Challenging and humbling, the 25 miles of hiking and 10,000 ft of elevation variance round trip from Yosemite's Tuolumne Meadows up to Ireland Lake marked the first proper backpacking experience of my travels. To my good fortune, this backcountry excursion was accompanied by the expertise of two seasoned mountaineers- the lovely and talented couple of Greg and Val Smith. We started at the head of the John Muir Trail, part of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) that spans from the southern California border all the way to the Canadian border just south of British Columbia. Though we didn't trek the entire PCT, thankfully, my feet sure thought we did. I kid you not when claiming a half-dollar-sized blister on the inside of my left heal that grew with each step over the sand, lumpy grass, rocks, creeks and downed trees. Nonetheless, this couldn't have become a distraction even if the water mass on my foot began to speak fluent Portuguese amidst the alluring draw of rising peaks, stretching forests, rushing rivers, prancing deer, and sheer infinity that is Yosemite. Everywhere you look you'll find a new story to ponder, a new curiosity sparked, a new delicacy constructed- and its end is not yet, not ever!
Moreover- and keeping in theme with the humbling aspect of the experience- when we arrived to Ireland Lake, the excitement of both serene vastness and the fact that we would finally rest the night after such a rigorous route had distracted me from taking the appropriate precautions in acclimating to the altitude. This rookie mistake threw me headfirst into extreme nausea, an unrelenting headache and wavering vision. Alas, it never ceases to surprise me how most of the human body's trouble can be solved with rest and water- the jig is up Pharmerica!
Waking in the new day, I felt fresh and rejuvenated from a night's sleep under the full moon and in path of a steady breeze at freezing point. Outside of the tent's window, a mountain delicately blanketed with snow played backdrop to glassy Ireland Lake. Not a drop of water or flake of snow out of place, we had a view that no man could claim for his ownership with any amount of cash or equity- the local currency of Yosemite is energy and equity is sustained human might.
Rich as we were, our feet led us across the field to where the lake funneled into a swiftly moving creek that would eventually become a rushing river. After creatively navigating across the aqua highway, Greg led the way up the rocky and beveled bank of the lake to where, in the ascending direction, lay the base of one of many steep, jagged peaks of Yosemite. A landscape laden with displaced rocks, of which some played balancing acts on their brethren beneath, was before us. Within the granite mazes hid patches of snow from the winter that slowly dripped into narrow cracks of the earth leading delicately to the next intersection of waterway where they'd join momentum in the direction of faster highways. It then struck me that these tiny drips of snow melt falling at a seemingly immeasurably slow rate represented the initiating source of fresh water that rushed rapidly down the mountain creaks into the rivers. What a beautiful and divine natural case for the connectivity of energetic source and flow.
Alas, it was time to scale back down the mountain onward to the wilderness station.
From filtering our own drinking water, learning how to properly and respectfully poo in the woods, wrestling with our portable bear locker, experiencing altitude sickness, and witnessing most divine natural processes, the Yosemite trek sparked a new fire that will surely add a fresh dynamic to my quest for crossing the gap between our perceived reality and the undeniably humbling reality of the natural landscape we've been so blessedly gifted in this life.
They say the solar system makes us feel small- Yosemite makes us feel humble.
Lands End - 6.13.13
I felt a bit claustrophobic in my North Beach apartment upon returning home from a long day of work in the Silicon Valley jammed to the brim with over stimulation which we've regrettably grown to consider normal routine. Understanding that these anxious feelings would surely be magnified had I decided to subject myself to the perpetually tuned-in TV my roommates seemed to adore, I saddled up the Golden Horse and took to the streets without any destination in my. Naturally, the Union street runway led me directly up Telegraph Hill and I gazed out at the Bay Bridge from the stairs that I tromped down with bike set on my shoulder. The landing positioned me facing the Levi Strauss headquarters- a series of beautiful brick buildings that resemble displaced Lego piece nestled comfortably in a corporately natural park laden with industrial rolling creeks and overhanging Willow trees. Back up the north side of Telegraph Hill I decided to make the next stretch of this route as steep as possible, beginning with a trek up Stockton to Lombard up to Coit Tower then right back down into the metro-valley over Columbus street to climb toward the world's most crookedest street. Avoiding tourist mayhem, I streaked up Filbert to climb Russian Hill then made a right on Polk to head to Fort Mason. At that point, I'd found myself onto Bicycle Route 15 that guided the Golden Horse and I through the Marina into the historic forest of San Francisco's Presidio. Winding, hilly streets lined with Eucalyptus trees gave the impression that I'd traversed miles out of the city before dumping into one of the most affluent and gentrified areas of San Francisco- Sea Cliff. Palm tree medians and immaculate mansions with stunning views of the Golden Gate bridge became my new environment.