Trail Log: JMT Days 25-26

Day 25

Tuolumne Meadows to Clouds Rest

14 miles

August 29, 2019

“Britt… Hey, wake up. There’s someone out here you’ll want to see.”

Bleary-eyed, I roll onto my side and peer through tent mesh in the early morning light. HP peers back with a smile, joined by the familiar faces of our trail friends, Dave and Sharon. At this welcome sight, I sit up on my sleeping pad excitedly.

“I knew we’d see you guys again!” I pronounce in a sleepy murmur, a goofy grin stretching across my face.

They tell us how they came through Tuolumne a couple days ago and decided to slack-pack* the last stretch of trail. After a bit of time in Yosemite Valley, they shuttled back here to pick up their car. Their JMT hike is finished.

I crawl from my tent to congratulate them, asking how it feels, what the last stretch of trail is like, and what they plan on doing now that they’re done. A pang rips through me. This might be the last time I see them. The pang is followed by a quiet, painful dread settling deep down in my gut.

Very soon, my hike will also be over.

I try to push the thought away as we say goodbye and break down our camp.

After grabbing a breakfast sandwich and a pastry from the grill, I walk to the permit office to meet up with HP. He had hiked straight here after breaking camp to get in line for hopeful Half Dome permits.

A ranger walking down the line smiles sadly upon hearing our hopeful plan. As she starts to tell us the astronomical odds of locking in last minute Half Dome permits, the hiker in front of us chimes in. He and two friends got permits for a weekend trip from Tuolumne to Yosemite Valley with a Half Dome summit. His friends backed out at the last minute, though, so he will now be hiking it alone. With a smile, he asks the shocked ranger if we can have his extra two permits. She turns back to us in shock. “You just won the lottery.”

My jaw drops, and I thank the hiker profusely. We are now officially taking on the famous Half Dome cables.

By 11 am, we set off toward the trail with our new permits in hand. The first 1.5 miles of our hike is roadside before we finally reach the Cathedral Pass trailhead. We now stand 21 miles from our ultimate Yosemite Valley terminus. I feel a mixture of pride and sadness well up within me at the sight of the trailhead mileage sign.

Cathedral is the last official pass of our journey, and our strong legs make quick work of reaching its 9900 ft peak. With determined mindfulness, I use every one of my senses to bask in the landscape surrounding me. The familiar ache of longing has already begun to settle deep in my gut, and I realize I’m missing the wilderness before even leaving its embrace. I stop often to soak in the vivid green of the grassy meadow, the rugged outline of ringing peaks, the sound of creek water burbling merrily nearby. Being here feels like pure magic.

We reach a junction and turn off the JMT proper, having decided to take a side trail over Clouds Rest. According to trail beta, that stretch of JMT suffered a recent fire and hasn’t yet recovered anyway. This alternate route only adds a few miles and takes us right through one of the most iconic views in all of Yosemite Valley.

My ankles start aching partway up the Clouds Rest approach, slowly my pace significantly. Needing a distraction from the pain, I plug into the soothing voice of Jim Dale reading my very favorite Harry Potter book. As I hike on, now with the salve of magic in my ear, I reflect on how often I turn to JKR’s text in times of struggle. Something about this story elevates my spirits and reminds me to never stop believing anything is possible.

The forest around me comes alive in new ways now, every sun ray illuminating an unexplored, ever more fantastical perspective and dusting my every footfall with a fresh sense of adventure.

“The thing about growing up with Fred and George,” said Ginny thoughtfully, “is that you sort of start thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

We reach Clouds Rest an hour before sunset and find an established site back down trail a ways to set up camp. With that finished, we grab our snacks and remaining apple whiskey and return to the summit.

Standing atop this Yosemite peak, watching the sun disappear behind the distant valley, words fall utterly short. I stand in awestruck silence, slowly turning my gaze all around to avoid missing a single ray of setting sunlight illuminating this 360-degree view. I will remember it to my dying day.

We stay on the summit until the first stars peek out at us, then return to camp just long enough to bundle up against the building cold. It is a clear, new moon night. After donning warm layers and grabbing my top quilt from the tent, I return to the now star-strewn summit, nestle into a flat, granite slab and fall into a silent, unhurried reverie. Time stops as I lie here for what could be hours or minutes or the blink of an eye, just staring and staring at the bottomless reaches of the universe, only an atmosphere away. I feel like I could reach out a hand and run outstretched fingers through swirling stardust, grazing fingertips over shooting stars as they dance across the sky.

Eventually, hesitantly, I head back to camp for a few hours of sleep before returning to witness the sunrise. My mind wanders as I snuggle into my tent. My time here is almost over, but I can’t wrap my brain around leaving. This place, this waking up and hiking and existing without civilized distraction and sleeping in these four dyneema tent walls… This has become my reality, my daily ritual, my home.

I turn my thoughts to all the things I miss about my home in civilization, consciously reminding myself why I have to go back, how I don’t have to choose between this home and that one. Part of the magic coating my world is its very transience, the fact that none of it is promised, none of it is forever. My world moves always forward, ready or not, and remembering that truth rekindles my mindful spirit. There simply isn’t time to take any of it for granted.

I think about how I will give back to my able body that has taken me through this magical landscape. I envision deep tissue massages, pedicures, a few days rest and a fridge filled with healthy, fresh foods. In my mind’s eye, I see myself tabletop gaming with friends, snuggling my two dogs and my contentedly purring kitty, seeing my husband again, blogging in my local coffee shop with a steaming latte in hand, walking into an exam room to see a tail-wagging patient. I let my excitement build for all that I have to look forward to in the coming months. I will relax back into my off-trail life and take time to process everything I’ve experienced here. But it will still be hard to leave this wilderness sanctuary…

With thoughts of home swimming through my head, I eventually drift off to sleep.

*Slack-packing is a hiker expression that means you hand off either all or most of your pack to another person (or leave it in a waiting vehicle). You are then able to hike without the burden of your full weight, allowing you to hike more miles at a faster rate.

Day 26

Clouds Rest to Half Dome to Happy Isles

16 miles

11000 ft elevation change

August 30, 2019

Due to a misguided decision to sleep only on our foam mats (with no inflatable pad), both HP and I sleep miserably. We eventually give up around 3:30 AM. It will be sunrise soon, anyway. We make cold coffees and break camp for what I don’t yet know will be the last time of our trip.

By 4:15 AM, we are once again sitting atop Clouds Rest, entranced by the starry sky. I stare out into galaxies upon galaxies, worlds so distant yet so close with this new moon sky, stretching across the hemisphere. The Milky Way paints its way across the sky, surrounded by an endless expanse of stars. I stare forever and not long enough, losing myself in the vastness of the universe stretched out before me.

I feel most alive in the presence of things that make me feel small. Things like the starry night sky, the ocean, the 360-degree vista cloaked in night just a sunrise away. These things exist in complete indifference to my existence. They are and have been and will be, with no regard for me. Paradoxically, this dwarfed feeling makes me feel most myself, most connected with the world around me, most inspired. My problems feel insignificant in the face of the tides, the sunrise, the shooting star lighting up the night.

Eventually, the sun begins to rise. Only two other hikers have made their way to this summit, far from where we are. It feels as though we stand alone in witness to the waking of the world. The stars fade in the face of the eastern light growing behind distant mountain peaks. I stand in reverence, a silent audience to this unfolding miracle all around me. No words, no pictures, nothing whatsoever could convey what it feels like to be right here, right now. It is pure magic.

Once the sun has risen more fully, we begin our 3000 ft descent toward Yosemite Valley. We arrive and set up camp by 9AM, much earlier than anticipated. Excited to find ourselves with so much remaining daylight and energy, we decide to take on Half Dome a day earlier than planned.

It’s Labor Day weekend, and we find ourselves surrounded by more and more people as we approach the Half Dome turnoff. Having left most of our gear at camp, we breeze past day hikers and weekenders ascending the initial slopes. The infamous granite slab looms ever closer, and I feel butterflies waking in my stomach. Half Dome has seen at least 290 accidents and 12 deaths in the past 15 years. I try not to imagine them in too much detail as I approach.

We flash our permits to the National Park ranger standing guard at the base of the granite subdome (around 8000 feet elevation), take a few swigs of water, and push on toward the cables. The top of Half Dome sits 4,800 feet off of the valley floor at a total elevation of 8,844 feet. Soon, we are standing atop the subdome, staring up at the summit only 400 feet away. All that remains are the cables, now fully visible.

At the sight, my slumbering fear of heights stirs with a terrifying rumble and reaches up to clutch my fast-beating heart. I acknowledge my fear with an audible “holy fucking shit” and halfway consider turning right back around. These cables seem to defy gravity, and I don’t much feel like dying today. I sit for a few minutes watching other hikers commute up and down the 400-foot length, summoning my scattered courage. With a deep, measured breath, I ask myself whether I would regret turning around now. The answer is obvious.

The monstrous fear within me grapples for a handhold to overtake my growing resolve, anything to send me safely back down the subdome slope. “You don’t have gloves,” it whispers reasonably in my ear. I look around and realize how true this is. Everyone around me seems to be wearing grippy gloves to ensure a firm hold on the vertical cables. With a swoop in my gut, I imagine my grip slipping while I face down the granite slope. I turn to tell HP my fears. His hiking gloves have grips, he says, so he will be okay. I wonder aloud if I should attempt this without gloves on, and two passing girls overhear me.

In the most incredible act of trail magic I have yet encountered, they produce a pair of yellow leather gloves from the depths of their backpack and offer them to me. “You don’t want to tackle this without gloves,” one of them says earnestly, “and our friend isn’t here right now to need these. Please take them, and hide them behind that rock when you get back down.” She points at a nearby slab. Dumbfounded, I stammer my thanks and pull on the gloves. The trail provides, as thru hikers often say. It looks like I’m out of excuses.

I walk up to the cables, firmly grip one in each gloved hand, and steadfastly begin my ascent. The higher we climb, the more vertical the ascent becomes, the granite surface worn smooth by the shoes of the thousands of people before me. Soon, the climb is so steep that I pull myself up more with my upper body strength than my legs and feet.

Partway up, we reach a young girl with traction-less shoes on her feet. She inches up the granite, breathing hard from fear and exertion. Her feet slip on the smooth rock, and she hugs her whole body to the cable, frozen and cursing aloud. We ask if she’s okay, and she doesn’t respond at first, despite our encouragements. Finally, she tells us she can’t do this, and she turns around to descend. Based on her non-grip soles and the yet more vertical nature of the remaining climb, I deem her decision wise. But my shoes are gripping, and I am now determined, excited even. This is not nearly as scary as my mental machinations of it had been. How often that ends up being the case.

Before I know it, we have reached the top. With a Snickers in hand, I marvel at the hard-earned view and try not to think about descending (the scariest part by far). I look out over Yosemite Valley far below, so close after a month of walking. Clouds Rest towers above us in the distance, and I fill with pride as I contemplate how far I’ve come.

More and more people seem to be pouring onto the summit, so we soon decide to turn around before the cables are overrun. I approach the cables with a determined grimace, following their path as they disappear over the edge of the cliff. There’s no backing out now; I can’t sit on this summit forever. Something about not having any other option feeds my courage, and I begin my descent.

I spend more time standing with hands firmly gripping the cables than actually moving, as climbers in both directions leapfrog around each another. Far from increasing my fear, this actually gives me time to acclimate. I consciously embrace this opportunity to challenge my deep-seated anxiety. This heights thing gets easier every single time. I think back to canyoneering in southern Utah, indoor rock climbing, jumping out of a plane high up in the air and sailing at terminal velocity back toward the Earth. The more I face this fear, the smaller its hold on me becomes.

Finally, we’re off the cables. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and stash the gloves under the promised rock. Today, I have summited two of Yosemite’s most iconic peaks, and the day isn’t even over yet. We decide to pack up camp and head into Yosemite Valley for celebratory beer and greasy food. Through a Labor Day Weekend miracle, we get a hotel room coordinated with two beds and a shower. It’s bittersweet, but it feels right. We‘ve accomplished what we set out to accomplish, the day is still young, and our solitude has been replaced by day hikers and weekend campers everywhere on this holiday weekend so close to the valley floor. It is time.

The sight of us packing up camp in the early afternoon hours attracts hopeful campers looking for a place to pitch their tents. Before we are even done taking down the tent, someone already sits in wait. We happily relinquish the site to him and set off for journey’s end.

I’m flying as we blaze down the trail, passing hikers headed in both directions as Happy Isles draws near. Two girls call out to me as I pass.

“What’s your secret? How are you going so fast??”

“My secret? Hike for a month straight. There’s nothing like 280 miles of High Sierras to build up your trail legs,” I reply with a grin.

They look at me in shock for a moment before one pronounces with a chuckle, “Yeah, no way I’m doing that.”

I laugh too, agreeing that it’s a bit of an extreme tactic, and turn to continue down the trail.

“I ain’t got no trail legs,” I hear one of them say before I’m quite out of earshot.

We descend past Nevada Falls, and now we‘re the odd ones out with our dusty, hobo-esque appearance and our huge packs. I feel torn between enjoying this trail at the pace my legs have come to know and never wanting it to be over. Too soon, though, it is.

Reaching the long-anticipated Happy Isles Trailhead, I feel a definite sense of anticlimax at complete odds with the sense of brimming accomplishment within me. There is a sign, a fence and a road filled to overflowing with hikers and cars going about their business. It feels unreal… after hiking for a month, how am I supposed to just stop? This question will haunt me more tomorrow and for many days to come. For now though, my mind is easily refocused on eating the first greasy thing I can find. Then a shower. Then resting my fatigued body and catching up on the sleep I didn’t get on Clouds Rest last night.

Was it only this morning I awoke in solitude at the top of the world and watched the sun rise over the silent landscape? I can’t reconcile it with the scene before me now. A food court patio filled to overflowing with well-dressed people of all ages and backgrounds. A woman in line for pizza openly berating the cashier behind the counter for the apparently unforgivable extra cost of getting her pizza with two different sauces. The lines stretching everywhere in all directions. The deafening cacophony of voices and car horns and registers and crinkling paper and children running with parents shouting after them and my shell shocked senses don’t know how to process all of this.

I try in vain to reawaken my forgotten desensitization to the noise of civilization. I hadn’t needed it out there, had in fact needed just the opposite. The past month taught me to mindfully open my every sense to the world around me… the vivid sunrise and sunset, the birds chirping, the scent of dirt and water and pine, the feel of my body moving up a mountainside, the wind whipping through my hair as I take in a hard-earned vista. Now I must remember how to dull this focus, to shut out all the excess noise.

“We’ve walked into Disneyland,” HP murmurs from the other side of the picnic table as we wait for our pizza. I can tell from his expression that he’s feeling a similar sense of overwhelm. I nod and refocus my attention on enjoying the ice cold glass of craft beer sitting tantalizingly in front of me.

“Cheers,” I say, raising my glass high off the table, “We really actually made it.”

“Cheers.”

Epilogue: Three Months Later

I feel longing like a physical ache deep down in my core.

I close my eyes and am transported back to a place that feels like home.

I am standing atop a mountain pass, studying every curving valley, stretch of forest, layer of distant peaks stretching into forever beneath the blue sky. I feel it seep into my bones and become a part of me, my soul now the very wind flitting everywhere and breathing life through my everything.

I blink and am walking through lupine meadows. I run my fingers through a wildflower rainbow as my feet keep time with the wild drumbeat thrumming through my chest. The world stretches out in every direction, beckoning, somehow intimate in its terrifying indifference. It breaks me down one footfall at a time, rearranging my pieces in ways I may someday comprehend.

I am whisked away to sit beside a singing stream. Water moves through my outstretched fingers, a life force forging its way through dirt and rock and tree. I slip into its refreshing depths at the end of a hard day’s walk, bare skin shuddering against the shocking cold. It nourishes me, body and soul. I will forevermore hear its echoes singing endlessly through my veins.

I look up and am nestled against a flat, granite slab on a new moon night blanketed in thousands upon thousands of distant galaxies. The universe stretches out before me like an ocean before a falling raindrop. I dive deep, swimming through a sea of stardust with the world spinning slowly around me. I can see for lightyears as a billion billion stars each whisper their ancient stories in my ear. I am infinite and small and utterly content.

My eyes open to asphalt and exhaust and the bustling humanity of civilization. It doesn’t slow, doesn’t quiet, doesn’t make sense to my rearranged pieces. I fall shell-shocked back into the rhythm of who I was before stepping onto the High Sierra trailhead, but I feel a half beat out of step.

“How was the trail?” people ask. And I don’t know how to answer.

How do you summarize something you don’t yet understand? Something that is really everything. Something that leaves you with a beautiful, unbearable ache inside your chest. One thing I do know. I am something new and feral and strange, somehow braver and more wild.

The idea of writing down the rest of my story has meant a finality that I wasn’t ready to face before now. This must be my iteration of the post-trail depression other thru hikers so often describe. This pang in my heart, this clench in my gut, this hesitation to write it all down.

But I finally found the strength to finish the story of my time here. Because the wilderness never really left me, even when I walked off the trail. I carry it with me now and forever. So it’s okay to write this ending, because it’s not an ending at all, not really. It’s a beautiful chapter, and it won’t be the last.

I am raw power, untamable, vast. I am the raging rivers and towering peaks and sheltering trees. I stretch on into forever, a world of possibility and perpetual becoming. I traverse my own landscapes with curiosity and awe, a wild thing in a wild land. There is dust and pain and heartache, but also there is beauty and grit and discovery.

I channel the glow of my dusty smile standing atop Clouds Rest at the start of the world, the sun rising on my last day (for now) in the wilderness. Here, I am most myself. Here, I am content.

Here is everywhere I am.