Continued from Part 10: The Final Miles.
My bus did not leave until 10 a.m. It was 6:45. There was plenty of time to wander around Yosemite Valley one last time. The early morning sun had just cleared the cliffs, bringing daylight to the trees along the valley floor. Sentinel Rock was still mostly in shadow, but the trees were shining brightly in the gold morning air, reflected by the peaceful Merced River.
My path took me to the original site of Yosemite Village, now almost completely restored to meadow conditions. The only remaining building of that sprawling, ramshackle complex is a chapel nestled in the trees. I followed the Merced River upstream, walking along its south bank, hoping to find a reflection of Yosemite Falls in its still waters. I passed a biker who said there was just such a spot ahead.
The falls remained in shadow, yet the upper and lower falls could be seen above the water and reflected in the river, which here was also still in the shadows.
I crossed Sentinel Bridge, near the spot where Ansel Adams’ famous shout of Half Dome and the Merced River was taken. The native peoples who used to call Yosemite Valley their home had a tale of Half Dome’s origins. Two travelers, Tissiak and her husband Tokoyee, were fighting. She threw a basket of acorns at him in a rage. Facing each other, both bitterly angry, they turned to stone. The acorn basket (Basket Dome) remains overturned by her husband (North Dome), and her stone face (Half Dome) remains stained by her tears.
On this morning, Half Dome was dimly backlit by the bright hazy sunlight. It appeared as though the sun was coming right out of its lofty nose.
My path took me across a wide meadow, across which a boardwalk minimized damage to the soil. Most of the wildflowers had already gone to seed, but a few were still blooming. As the walkway turned east, toward Yosemite Village, I spotted some deer grazing in the sun-splashed grassland, which seemed to be aglow with sunflowers. As I drew closer, I made out a spotted fawn running and jumping around them. It was hard to spot in the high grass, but I finally found a vantage point where I could observe them.
I watched the fawn for about 15 minutes. His joy and enthusiasm for this beautiful morning in this lush meadow in this grand place were highly contagious. He bounded this way and that, pausing to look around before leaping to another spot. What a way to start the day!
A crowd had gathered, coming from cars and bikes and feet, and suddenly there was a miniature circus watching the deer. Time to go. I bid goodbye to the little deer and his guardians and continued toward the village. Once there, I got a hot breakfast sandwich from the deli and began the walk back to the lodge.
I spent a few moments at the viewpoint to Lower Yosemite Falls, where this adventure began 13 days earlier. The falls were diminished since I last saw them up close, and there were fewer people clamoring around the rocks. As luck would have it, the moment was shattered by a huge contingent of garishly dressed tourists, who swarmed the viewpoint with all the sound and fury of that hail storm that hit me at Cathedral Lake. The falls themselves seemed drowned out by their chatter.
As I hurried away, I remembered this time to take a well-timed look over my shoulder. I was greeted with a view of the falls, and I had just enough time to take a photo before the next wave of tourists crashed upon me.
Civilization had encroached upon my wilderness experience. It was already underway when I was hanging out at the pool (itself an oddity — why is there a swimming pool here?) listening to a family complaining about things here and yon. The people in the room next to me debated what they were going to do for two hours, mostly outside my open door. Cars roared by on the road. A construction crew was grinding up asphalt at midnight (I called the front desk to complain.). The return to the unreal world we live in is always rough, but much more so here. I could go on, but I was out of time to ponder all this. My bus would be boarding soon.
To my delight, the alarm was buzzing in my room. It had been for two hours. I forgot to turn it off when I arose before it. Well, at least those jerks in the next room are up. They have, of course, missed a fine morning of enjoying Yosemite, but that’s fine. More space for me.
The bus out of the Valley was sold out. It departed a little late. Within a few moments, I was no longer in Yosemite, the place which for nearly two weeks had shown me its marvelous scenery, challenged me, awed me, and rewarded me. Passengers boarded and left. The scenery passed from mountains to visions of dry, hot agricultural lands. Instead of wild streams tumbling over boulders, there were canals and ditches. In a couple of hours, the bus arrived at the Merced train station, where I sat in the shade, waiting for my train.
It was predictably late. It was also oversold. I stood until we reached Modesto and enough people got off to open up a seat. The dining car still had breakfast but no lunch or snacks. Of the handful of less popular soft drinks which remained, I got a root beer and was happy my seat was still there. The train slid along the East Bay, reaching the town of Richmond, where it stopped for an unusually long time, even for smoke breaks. The captain said the Berkeley station was closed because of a police action and he had no guess as to when the train would be cleared to leave Richmond.
Fortunately, the train station is near the outermost BART station, so I, and a large group of other passengers, departed for the subway. When I got off, I was in the City by the Bay, with a full backpack, during Friday afternoon rush hour, and several miles from my hotel, which I otherwise would have been two blocks from three hours earlier had everything been on time. I rode a crowded cable car, with a full backpack, to Fisherman’s Wharf and walked a few blocks to the hotel.
After nearly two weeks exploring Yosemite National Park, I would finish my epic trip with a couple of days in the Bay Area, spending a couple of nights in Fisherman’s Wharf. Here is the famous sign and a couple of seagulls welcoming me to the tourist zone. Fortunately, there are excellent restaurants — Scoma’s fresh swordfish steak was amazing — and vendors selling fleece jackets, which I needed in the foggy, breezy, mid-50s summer weather.
Continues in Part 12: The Streets of San Francisco.
The complete trip report:
Part 1: Glacier Point Dayhike
Part 2: Porcupine and Yosemite Creeks
Part 3: Entering the Grand Canyon
Part 4: Walking Among the Waterfalls
Part 5: Glen Aulin to Cathedral Lakes
Part 6: The Tempest
Part 7: Sunrise to Clouds Rest
Part 8: Facing Fear on Half Dome
Part 9: Triumph Atop Half Dome
Part 10: The Final Miles
Part 11: From Woods to Wharves
Part 12: The Streets of San Francisco
Part 13: Muir Woods and Foggy Shores