Extra Writings

Half Dome in a Day

            My brother spent the summer of 1987 working at Yosemite National Park as a park helper. He was out of college for the summer and I suppose he felt he had nothing better to do than take in the sights of a national park while he terrorized tourists with high speed mountain driving in his stock blue Plymouth Caravelle. He never actually received a ticket, though he did get a warning from a cop who chased him a good twenty minutes through the mountain pass before finally catching up at the Visitor’s Center. I think my brother would have framed the ticket anyway, and somehow managed to get a photo of him and the cop. I didn’t know it then, but my brother and Yosemite National Park would teach me a lifelong lesson about hopes and dreams.

            When my parents suggested that I take the last two weeks of summer break and fly down to visit, I leapt at the opportunity. I love mountains, scenic vistas, and any chance to get away and explore. Besides, my parents sprang for a one-way ticket to Los Angeles (my brother and I planned to drive home after my visit) and so I had no reason to hold back. We set it up and I quickly made my way to the coast.

            I’m sure that my brother picked me up at the airport, but I really don’t remember anything about it. What I do remember is the drive into Yosemite Valley. The drive was breathtaking, weaving in and out of solid rock and hair-raising sheer cliffs. But, the view that stole my heart was when I first saw the valley open up before my eyes. There was no slow reveal, or fade in, but rather an instant display of astonishing beauty as far as I could see. In my opinion, Yosemite National Park is truly mind bogglingly gorgeous. My brother knew I would react that way and pulled over so I could soak in the sight. We probably stayed half an hour just looking at it. That is beauty.

            The worker’s cabins weren’t much for comfort, but I wasn’t staying in a cabin for anything more than sleep, so I didn’t mind much. I do remember that the food was fantastic at the cafeteria. We spent the first couple of days walking all over the meadows in the valley and gawking up at the mountains of pure granite. I knew immediately that I wanted to go to the top of Half Dome, a strange mountain that looks like a ball of clay that some giant child has sliced half away and left to harden. The guide listed the hike as fourteen miles and averaging between ten and sixteen hours long. We figured we could do it in eight.

            In hind sight I think we were well prepared for the hike, and certainly eager enough, but we didn’t bring nearly enough water. We packed a few sandwiches, a bag of pretzels and eight bottles of Gatorade in our backpacks. The trail guide suggests taking half a gallon of water as a bare minimum, but I’m not sure I read that at the time. Still, I think we did well for a couple of youngsters out for an extended hike.

            We took off early in the morning, probably around six, drove to the base of the trail and parked in one of the nicely maintained lots scattered throughout the valley. There are two trails that go to the top of Half Dome: one that takes a direct route, though surprisingly scenic, and stops at the top of Nevada Falls, the other trail is flatter at the start and also takes hikers around Vernal Falls which is well worth the extra effort. We wanted to see both falls, so we picked the longer route.

            The walk around the base of Half Dome is amazing. At the start, the mountain is in plain view and then vanishes behind a cloak of trees rolling over what is known as the “shoulder.” The trail winds around a wide valley that narrows as it bends back behind Half Dome. After only half an hour we arrived at the carved stone stairs that lead up to Vernal Falls. It’s a picturesque climb that takes hikers past the runoff of the waterfall and ends up crossing the falls in a spectacular view that brings to mind images of Ansel Adams. Past Vernal Falls is an easy walk up to Nevada Falls and a splendid picture taking opportunity. After another light walk through what I think of as a butterfly meadow, where I imagine butterflies of all kinds snacking on flowers all day long, the real strenuous part of the hike begins.

            At this point I think we had been hiking for maybe a bit over an hour and were still fresh and enjoying ourselves. The gorgeous scenery kept our spirits high and the ease of the hike gave us the impression that we weren’t going to have any real difficulty. We were wrong.

            It really is amazing how fast liquid refreshments disappear when hiking. Once we began exerting ourselves heavily we went through six of our eight bottles of Gatorade in no time flat. I distinctly remember being only three hours into the climb and realizing that we wouldn’t have nearly enough to get to the top, much less back down. We talked about giving up and going back down, and maybe trying again the next day, but couldn’t bear the thought of quitting. Whatever the logic behind it, we decided to push on anyway. We were wrong and stupid at the same time. Thinking back on it, I can’t figure out why we chose to kept marching on, since we still had another seven grueling hours to go, except that the vision of standing on top of Half Dome was firmly ahead of us and we wanted to put ourselves up there with the clouds.

            Our salvation came on the whispers of a hidden spring somewhere near the halfway point. It was true, amazingly enough. When we arrived at the spot we had heard about, there was a tiny little path--we certainly would have missed it had we not already known about it--that wound out into the trees for forty feet or so. On the other side of a large boulder was a shallow pool bubbling up from a crack in the granite mountainside. The water was pure crystal delight. We filled all six of our empty bottles to the brim after drinking our fill. If you have never drunk pure mountain spring water, then I urge you, dear reader, to take the opportunity if it ever happens your way. Water from a rock is heaven sent.

            With the surge of energy that fresh water provides, we pushed on toward the summit. It was nearing eleven o’clock when we broke out of the tree line and onto bare granite, or the “hump” as the guidebook names it. From that point, there was no shade to be found and it’s really surprising just how hot the sun is at high altitude. The entire climb is a total of 4,800 feet gained, though the mountain is actually 8,800 feet above sea level. I think that’s when my legs started giving out.

            My lagging endurance probably shouldn’t be a surprise, since I spent most of my life in Nebraska. I wasn’t physically prepared to exert myself at high altitude, unlike my brother who had been there all summer. However, I wasn’t about to let my brother know that I was struggling, so I soldiered on all the way to the point they call the “final ascent.” It’s a 300 foot climb up solid granite that is so steep that there are permanent cable railings planted into the rock that climbers grip to assist the ascent. It’s a brutal final step, but the reward is a viewpoint that encompasses the entire valley. I stood at the bottom of the ascent and realized I was completely spent. My legs were jelly and my head was spinning. My brother called me a wimp.

            There are times in life that the reward is beyond any hope of collection. I had stumbled on one of those moments. I felt like a loser. I told my brother to go on without me. He shook his head and went up, without looking back. As I waited, I drank some spring water and watched the wind blow through the trees below me. I tried getting up and finally gave up entirely. It crushed me. After an eternity of watching other hikers stroll past me, my brother returned and we shared our meager lunch. He talked about how incredible the view was and how the wind blew past him without anything getting in the way; he mentioned eagles flying above him and how hot the sun was up there. He said he would never forget it. I smiled and nodded, but I’ll never forget how his eyes hurt when he looked at me. I’m not sure I saw it then, but I realize now that his heart ached for me.

            It took us six hours to reach the top of Half Dome, but only four hours to get all the way back to that old blue Plymouth Caravelle. My legs weren’t able to lift me up, but I found a new delight on the way down: controlled falling. Going down a mountain is very simple, just push forward and let yourself go down; make sure to land somewhat safely though. It takes very little effort, and isn’t tiring in the least. In fact, I ended up with more energy when I was all the way down than I did at the “hump.” We made another quick stop at the hidden spring to top off our water, though we really didn’t need it.

            I think the most important realization I made about myself during our hike was that there are times when our goals don’t match our ability. I didn’t want to give up on my dream of reaching the top of Half Dome, but my body wouldn’t cooperate with me. In the end, I wasn’t in the position to argue and I accepted the peace of sitting there, watching the trees wave in the wind. I don’t regret it at all and it remains one of the cherished memories of my youth: the day my brother and I climbed Half Dome.