Still Life
Ten hours out, and eight thousand something feet up. Break out the map. A couple peaks to choose from. Look at the sun. Maybe three more hours of daylight. Look at the sun again. Not a cloud in the sky. Let’s put the odd part up front, this time. Good climbing weather makes for bad photography. No clouds and no weather equals not much visual drama. No real point to climbing up out of the trees to just be exposed to constant sun and a bland sunset. Three more hours of up today just means two and half more hours of down tomorrow.
This place seems nice. A small patch of reasonably flat, sandy terrain in the garden of vertical granite that is Yosemite. A rare bit of softness to lay on. A few trees for shade. Call it a day right here. Watch the sun set behind Half Dome.
The crowds were left behind eight hours ago. Bless them all. The under-shoed. The over-camera’d. The dude bros. The new parents, with babies and backpacks strapped every which way. The throngs from overseas marveling at what John Muir saw as he observed the clearest way into the universe is through a forest wilderness. The start of the wilderness is asphalt-paved and semi-toileted to withstand the press of the crowd, and seduce them into the wild. Half stop at the footbridge a mile in. Half of the remainder are satisfied with Vernal Falls. Almost everyone else is done at Nevada Falls.
That leaves a few who press on to Half Dome when the cables aren’t yet up and the … I haven’t seen anyone since who go farther still. The trails get sketchier and the wilderness envelops you. Ferns, firs, asters, pines, lichens and the sentinel sequoias, some having stood guard over the landscape since Europe looked like Game of Thrones. I’m guessing. Haven’t seen the show. Got no TV. Who needs TV?
The rivers are running hard, with warm temps melting the heavy winter snowpack. The thunder of waterfalls reverberates off the mountain faces and through the forests. Birds chirp, bees buzz, leaves rustle. Mother Nature sings her song to keep me company.
Not the brightest guy but not the least observant either, I notice the Cubs hat atop the mountaineering boots enough to chuckle and snap a picture. The chuckle is born in the realization that it’s the same. This new mountain and forest to explore. The city I was born in. Ok. Maybe the odd part is here. It seems the same to me, though. These new trails, those old alleys. These tall old trees, those tall mid-century skyscrapers. These wonderful new plants, those wonderful paintings at the Art Institute.
The part that’s the same is the curiosity and marvel, the adventure of the new and unknown, the learning as you go. The happiness of being on your own, and making whatever sense of it you can, at the pace that seems right in the moment. It used to come by ditching school and heading downtown. The middle initial might just as well have stood for Truant. Now it comes via Jeep drives to trailheads and backpacking from there.
Heading out on the shuttle bus of valley floor tourists, the girl noticed the pack and gear and asked where I was heading. “That way”. She expressed worry about the lack of a specific destination and the solitary journey, apparently not yet completely understanding life. There are bears. And dark, she observed. “The dark’s just like the light, just better to see stars in”. She said she was afraid. "Fear is overrated."
Fifty-four years. One hundred and forty days. Plus ten hours, out.
