The trail was packed with day hikers heading towards Half Dome, and
although I was happy to see that so many people were motivated to get out and
explore the wonders of Yosemite, I felt anxious to get beyond the Half Dome
turnoff and into a bit more solitude.
Just before we reached that point, three bare-chested guys wearing
fraternity baseball caps passed us, their skin soaked with sweat. I didn’t see a water bottle anywhere on them,
but they each held two cans of Budweiser, one in each hand.
I couldn’t help but chuckle, and I glanced at Pam. “You can only hope that ends well.”
She laughed and we trudged on.
At lunchtime we stopped by a small tributary and snacked on trail mix,
dried apricots and Clif Bars. It was
already becoming clear that I hadn’t packed enough lunch food, so we had to
stop eating before anyone really wanted to, but the kids’ spirits seemed higher
than they had the day before, and I felt hopeful as I watched them explore and
play along the streambanks. I leaned back
against a fallen log and reached out to hold Pam’s hands. We’d situated ourselves the way we always do
at outdoor restaurants—just on the edge of the shade, so that she could soak in
the rays and I could get out of the darn heat.
Everything felt doable that morning.
The kids had been tough and hiked without complaining. The smoke had cleared a little bit (now we
were just breathing air like you might find in downtown Los Angeles, not Lanzhou,
China). A light breeze came and went,
making even the heat manageable.
Unfortunately, as soon as we started hiking again, Kai’s spirits took a
nose dive. He’d hung tough all morning,
but now he’d had a taste for playing barefoot along the streambank, and lugging
a 15-pound backpack up a steep, hot, dusty hill felt like a real drag. I could hardly blame him. He was a seven-year-old kid. I preferred being barefoot beside the
streambank too!
We pushed on for a couple more miles but, when Pam and I spotted a nice
camping spot along Sunrise Creek, we decided to stop shy of our original
destination for the night. We didn’t
want to overdo it right out of the gates, and we figured it would be best if
the kids had time to play every day.
Hopefully that way they wouldn’t burn out.
They both held up the bright orange whistles hanging from their necks,
and I waved them off into whatever magical childhood adventure land they were
cooking up.
Finally, after setting up the tent, getting our dinner food organized,
rinsing my sweaty shirt in the creek and hanging it to dry, I decided to take
off my shoes and soak my feet in the icy water.
On my way there I nearly stumbled right into a colossal, still very
fresh, pile of bear poop. There were
bright red berries and large chunks of something green in it. “Crap,” I muttered.
I looked around, scanning the woods for any movement, anything large
and dark and furry. I spotted my kids
and waved at them. “Don’t go too far
okay, guys?”
I took a few more steps towards the creek and nearly stepped on a
plastic water bottle, the kind that snaps into a cage on a bicycle. It was all ripped to pieces, punctured in a
hundred places by sharp teeth, scratched and mangled. “Crap!”
I scanned the whole area again, looking back at the fresh pile of scat…
and I swore to myself that I would never tell Pam.
I told myself that guys like me—guys that are super anal and annoying
about making sure that everything that smells like anything is locked safely in
a bear canister and that the bear canister is placed a hundred yards away from
the tent—don’t get eaten in the night.
It was the drunk, half-naked frat boys climbing Half Dome with no water that
had to worry. They’re the ones that
would leave a Snickers wrapper (or a Jello shot) in their pants pocket and wake
up with a ravenous Wookiee tearing into their tent.
“We’ll be fine,” I said to my feet.
Later, the boys and I made a small fire, and for a while we all sat
around the dancing flames, writing in our journals and reading. It was that magical time of evening when the
sky takes on a slightly purple hue and everything seems to stop, as if the
entire world needs a moment to reflect, to soak in the final, fleeting moments
of daylight and appreciate the simple miracle of being part of it all. Sunrise Creek chuckled in the
background. Now and then the fire popped
and crackled. Everything else was
silent, the world completely still.
Peaceful.
We sat on a hillside with ponderosa pines and firs towering around
us. Ice and wind and the passing of eons
had left large granite boulders strewn about, and the first stars were making
their appearance in a cloudless sky. To
the east, we caught our first glimpses of the high alpine ridges we’d soon be
travelling across, and I could imagine myself walking on them, feel the thrill
of being on top of the world with endless stretches of wilderness running out
in all directions.
But the mountains worried me too.
Our first two day of hiking had been tough for the boys, especially Kai,
and I understood how little he still was.
Seven years old, and I’d dragged him out here to hike 200 miles and
climb a combined total of 46,700 feet!
Was it too much? Was it too
soon?
I made a wish on the first star I’d seen shimmering in the eastern
sky. “Let Kai’s spirits stay high. Let everyone’s spirits stay high, and make
this a great, meaningful adventure for our family. Please.”
After dark, we climbed into the tent and snuggled into our sleeping
bags. I kissed the boys then lay there
looking at Pam, her eyes closed. She was
here with me, with the kids we’d created, giving this crazy dream of mine a
real chance even though the first couple days had been a struggle. She was committed to the adventure, to
helping the kids find their strength.
Ever since the boys were born she’s been a wizard at finding little ways
to make them happy, reading their emotions and shaping moments so that life happens
peacefully and productively.
In all honesty, she was the one who’d made these first two days of
unforgiving hiking work. When the kids
were flagging, my innate response was to say, “Suck it up. Be tough.
You can do this.” But she dug
deeper, used her endless creativity to turn the drudgery into a game, spark some
passion in our boys and create new energy.
If I was a slave driver with calloused hands and a whip, then she was an
artist with a giant heart and one of those huge boxes of every-colored crayons,
able to make the world a brighter place for everyone. I reached out and ran my hand through her
hair, and when she opened her eyes to look at me I smiled. “Thanks for being here with me.”
“I like it.” She smiled back.
Before I closed my eyes and hunkered further into my sleeping back I
reached up to triple check the bear spray I’d stashed near my head. It was still there—ready for me in case some
ravenous monstrosity stole into camp to eat all of our oatmeal and freeze-dried
pasta.
Read the full series by clicking on the links below:
Day 1 – Day2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6 – Day 7 – Day 8 – Day 9 – Day 10 – Day 11 – Day 12 – Day 13 – Day 14 – Day 15 – Day 16 – Day 17 – Day 18 – Day 19 – Day 20 – Day 21 – Day 22 – Day 23 – Day 24 – Day 25 – Day 26 – Day 27 – Day 28 – Day 29 – Day 30 – Day 31 – Day 32 – Day 33 – Day 34
Day 1 – Day2 – Day 3 – Day 4 – Day 5 – Day 6 – Day 7 – Day 8 – Day 9 – Day 10 – Day 11 – Day 12 – Day 13 – Day 14 – Day 15 – Day 16 – Day 17 – Day 18 – Day 19 – Day 20 – Day 21 – Day 22 – Day 23 – Day 24 – Day 25 – Day 26 – Day 27 – Day 28 – Day 29 – Day 30 – Day 31 – Day 32 – Day 33 – Day 34
J. S. Kapchinske is the author of Coyote Summer.
