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Yosemite: A Backpacking Trek
BY KRISTEN ELISE FLIGEL

Backpacking for five days in Yosemite National Park in August of 1998 seemed like a good idea at the time. Yosemite is part of the scenic Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, approximately 150 miles east of San Francisco, California.

Its 761,320 expansive acres are famous for giant sequoia trees, sheer rock walls, huge domes and peaks (including El Capitan), enormous waterfalls and black bears.

Backpacking with a group of eight on my first trip, five of whom were very experienced packers, seemed like an even better idea. I would learn gradually without pressure, I would see a wondrous place, I would take pictures, I would relax, and get away from it all. Yosemite had a different vision for the trip than I.

.. .. ..
L-R - Kris, Lauri, Greg & Kristen

SUNDAY: PACKING
Within the first 10 minutes, my packing list is superceded by those of the more experienced backpackers. I am with Ed Bachrach and his daughters, Laurie and Kris, who review every article, discarding my best items and loaning me better replacements. I note with a sense of foreboding that they have boundless energy.

It is apparent that I should have done research, somehow, on something. I am not prepared. Gear everywhere. No time. We have time only to pack my brother’s external pack, not the one I have been offered by Ed and have stubbornly refused; an internal pack identical to his own. As we dash for Chicago, I contemplate my previous reference point for minimalism. I have left every ounce of makeup, my towel, the bright orange J.C. Penny sleeping bag and duffel I acquired at age 8, my camera, and my deflated pride on Ed’s living room floor. I take a deep breath.

MONDAY: FINAL PREPARATIONS AND TRAVEL
We buy “food” for the trip. I wonder why we don’t take more substantial food. Then I try on my pack and cannot even do so without help. It weighs approximately 45 lbs., without food or water. I am certain that we do not have enough food and I am equally certain that I don’t want to carry another ounce. We advance to the airport where I have a harrowing experience with a woman (whom I will call “the Nose”) who facilitates my learning curve. As “the Nose” smells a slight hint of fumes, she forbids my father’s gas camping stove and empty fuel cannister to board the plane. I face “the Nose”. I beg “the Nose” for mercy. “The Nose” assures me that she has none. We travel to L.A,. meet the others, and drive to a hotel near Yosemite. Ed is ready for anything. Kris and Laurie have been through this before. Ed’s cousin Rick has run triathalons. Rick’s friend Greg is a consummate mountain man. Richard is a summer river rafting and wilderness guide. The other rookie, Kim, is 10 years younger than I. My comfort level has plummeted from skeptical optimism to harsh realization and my competitive ego is concerned.

TUESDAY, DAY 1:
Breakfast and final packing, last desperate trips to the hotel bathroom, our final vehicular approach to Yosemite. True to group outings, the cats cannot be herded away from the trailhead at Mono Meadow until after noon. We tramp for 6 hours on wooded trail, talking as we go. We spot a bear close to the trail and hesitate to observe for a few breathless moments. We hike and hike, and hike. We lunch at Illilouette Creek after 2.9 miles and break again at 4.5 miles. We hike, and hike, and hike. By the time we stop for the night, the pack straps and metal frame of my pack are cutting such a hole in my posterior that I cannot raise my left arm after I drop the pack and slump to the ground. Later, the sounds of the others fade into the abyss as my eyes and my brain slip into the deep pool of welcome sleep. I am vaguely aware of a realization that this journey might take a lifetime.

WEDNESDAY, DAY 2:
We breakfast. My spirit is renewed. I use nature when it calls and decide that I have learned some things fairly quickly. The others adjust my pack so that I can bear to put it on. We eventually hit the trail at 9:00 a.m. Fifteen minutes later, we encounter a “river crossing.” I look for the bridge. I glimpse what might lie ahead for the next several days. The “crossing” appears to be two logs propped from opposite banks upon each other. They create a log path 15-plus feet long with a two-foot step down over the rock-filled water. I go second. I fall first. My boots and body are drenched. The group fishes me and my wet pack out of the river. I jump up and down, proclaim that I will dry, and encourage the group to move on quickly. We proceed through a long day. Squish. Squish. The banter on the trail is amusing as we contemplate past experiences and life dreams. We have traveled 7.53 miles before our second break on the way to Lower Merced Pass. The path ascends more steadily upward with each step and elevation distress begins. Between Lower Merced Pass and Lower Ottoway Lake we climb from 8,000 feet to almost 10,000 feet. When we ultimately arrive at our intended lakeside camp, I am more exhausted than I am sure I have ever been. Kris and Laurie convince me that I must take off my boots and socks and change into Tevas. I am aware that I must listen to experience. Mosquito purgatory begins, but I am too exhausted to care, or to be remotely interested in food. We have a shovel deficit, resulting in outdoor restroom difficulties, and, out of necessity, I learn to dig a hole with bare hands and a rock. At last. . . sleep.

THURSDAY, DAY 3:
I have fallen in the river by noon. I know that we will hike uphill for hours today ascending 1,900 feet, until we cross “The Pass”, Red Peak Pass, at 11,699 feet. Throughout the day my mantra becomes “breathe, Ruby, breathe.” I concentrate on placing each foot carefully as the snow begins to surround us and we creep upward. We have two river crossings today. The first one had been so pathetic (my face covered in mosquitos, my Teva stuck in an underwater hole, my pack and my body going under, again, until I was quickly fished out by my protectors, Kris and Laurie) that I have completely lost my nerve. Richard offers to take my pack for the second crossing. I am relieved. For the next portion of the day, Ed and I stay together. Kris, Laurie, Ed and Rick alternatively direct that I stop to eat. “By the time you are thirsty or tired or hungry, it’s too late,” one of my law partners had warned before I left. I come to believe these words today. I am scared at times. Robert Frost never saw this road, I am sure. At other times, I marvel at the fierce power of nature’s beauty. Even the experienced packers become stressed now, concerned about those in front dislodging rocks and injuring those behind. We strain upward until I think that I might not make it. I don’t know how I possibly can. I stop. I look up. I look down. Breathe, Ruby, breathe. Richard asks, “How would you feel about me taking your pack just up the final 100 feet or so?” My heart fills with hope. I slide the pack from my aching body as my eyes well with tears. “That would be great.”

The view from the summit is indescribable. The mountainous expanses of the Clarke Range are breathtaking. If the signs were not here to prove us wrong, we would say that no one has ever crossed this pass before. The wind is cold, but the sun is warm, and the sheer accomplishment is exhilarating. We eat lunch and rest a long while on the top of our world.

We slide down parts of the other side on our seats, with packs in tow. We make good time, pitch camp by Red Devil Lake fairly early, go swimming on double dares in frigidly refreshing water, tell camp tales, play card games, and go early to bed, getting the first good rest since we started. We muse about the day tent-side before we sleep, back again at 10,000 feet. We have traveled less than an inch on the map today, but we have gone so far.

FRIDAY, DAY 4:
Moving earlier today, we lose the trail just after we embark. An hour-long search in splinter groups reveals the trail. I am leading and feeling strong. During several good hours of lower-elevation, mosquito-free hiking, we move through glorious territory with no time to stop.

Later, the Bear Swamp is the loneliest place I have ever been. I am somehow separated from the others. One group is too far ahead to catch, yet the mosquitos-filled air prevents me from waiting for the others. I have no mosquito net and I want nothing more than to leave this place. We camp after 13 miles next to Washburn Lake, at 8,000 feet. Total exhaustion has consumed me again; I have not taken care to drink enough water today; my attitude is impaired; I am certain that dozens of black bears are watching us. We walk while eating to prevent mosquitos from landing on our spoons. Blessedly, the bear canisters have been lighter today, but it is because we have little food left. We expend more energy and metabolize more calories than the instant camp meals can replace. I am hungry again. And the blisters have arrived.

The high point of my day: I did not fall in the river.

SATURDAY, DAY 5. THE LONG TRIP OUT.
I wait until the last possible moment to put on my pack, uncertain of how far we will go today. The 17 miles to the shuttle stop seem impossible, but we are determined, and before we feel the blisters of the boots again, we are ambitious. We pass heavenly meadows, Merced Lake at 7,216 feet, Merced River in Echo Valley. The terrain changes before lunch and I am once again moderately terrified. I cannot look down. The others are ahead and my internal pep-talk wanes. The rocks try to trip me, and are successful once, but I stay on the trail, despite my top-heavy pack. I am grumpy. I am hungry. I cannot drink enough water. I want. . . I cannot think of anything that would make me feel better. My body begs me to stop. My brain toys with me. I gaze into a stretch of the most powerful waterfall I have ever seen and wonder whether the others will notice when I careen off the trail, over the cliff and into its mouth, the boulders slicing my body apart. I wish none of my companions the discomfort of watching my certain death.

Life on the trail is reduced to very simple, immediate issues. When one is pressed to one’s limits, I have found, moods tend to change quickly. We finally, finally stop for lunch at Bunnell Cascade, where Ed urges me to eat the best of the food he has left. I am renewed. I smile as we pose for a photograph and I leave at the beginning of the pack.

During a late afternoon rest at Little Yosemite Valley, we consider whether to attempt the last 5 to 6 miles today. We split into groups and elect two separate routes. I opt for the lower elevations of the John Muir trail. Laurie and I have a good time almost running downhill the last several miles. My feet ache horribly, but I cannot stop. I am sweating, and as we see movement ahead on the trail, I realize that we have seen only four humans in five days. Two of them were rangers. To those who now eye us with curiosity, we must look a sight. Items hang from our packs where they have been tied to dry in the sun. We are grimy, sticky and unwashed. As we persist down the trail toward civilization, we begin to see printed trail signs and the dirt path transforms into rock and then concrete. Some people are not wearing hiking boots and don’t have packs. I know we are nearing the end of the trail. We start to laugh and yell when we see the first people wearing sandals. “We must be close!” We emerge from the wood, stepping onto a surreal asphalt road and do not stop, but aim directly for the appointed meeting place past Glacier Point. We have traveled 55 miles in 4 and ½ days.

L-R - Rick, Kristen, Kim, Lauri, Kris, Ed, Richard & Greg

FINAL THOUGHTS:
I began the trip with a list of gear, a competitive nature, a wish to spend good time with Ed and his daughters and a desire to experience the awesome beauty of a new place and feel it breathe. What I experienced, and what you will experience on a packing adventure, was most unexpected and fairly indescribable. It is oddly beyond physical concern. It is difficult to explain the transformation that occurs when you are brought to the edge of your capabilities, when you have minimum supplies and all is reduced to the simplicity of where and when you will next eat, find water or use the bathroom, whether your feet can carry you farther and when, oh when, can you sleep. These ultra simple concerns are so huge to your existence for a few days that all memories of voice mail messages and business meetings slide into a giant internal filing cabinet and become stories of someone else’s life. You gain the absolute freedom to observe yourself, stripped of all pretense, distraction and excuse. You discover the good and the horrid aspects of your character, and your spirit prevails. Ultimately, after a huge meal, two or three painful showers on sore, blistered feet and at least a full day of sleep, after the sunburn has healed and your shoulders can again support a shirt without pain, you feel accomplished. And you honestly and astonishingly, think about going again. Really, you do.

Kristen Elise Fligel is an attorney with the Decatur firm of Samuels, Miller, Schroeder, Jackson and Sly.

This article originally appeared in the April/May 2000 issue of Decatur Magazine.
It may not be reproduced or redistributed in whole or in part without the publisher's consent.
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