The store was crawling with hikers; some were standing in line for showers,
others were retrieving their resupply packages, and others still were sitting
at the picnic tables in front of the store eating a wide assortment of junk
food or sorting through their resupply boxes
.
There was
excitement in the air, as hikers I had never seen before shouted to one another
about their plans to leave the trail, hitch into Yosemite Valley and climb up
the back face of Half Dome. Me, I was just happy to find a place to sit
down at a picnic table and take off my backpack and relax for a bit.
With my
pack on the ground, and now feeling as light as a feather, I headed for the
convenience store to see what treats and goodies I can buy for a couple of
bucks. I settled on my usual of cookies and milk, while those around me
scarf down green vegetables mixed with bits of cheese, mushrooms, and avocados.
There was a large hiker box in the store, and I rummaged through it for edible
treasures.
This box happened to be filled with food that day hikers had
purchased but hadn’t consumed on their hikes around the area. I found
packets of hard salami, blocks of cheese and bags of dried fruit, plus foil
packets of Idahoan Instant Potatoes
.
I took
all of them and headed back out to the picnic table to stuff them in my
backpack. At the table, I met a young female hiker named Pia. I would
leapfrog with her on the trail all the way to Bend, Oregon, at which point she
would leave the trail and head home to Rhode Island.
I left
the store at two in the afternoon and walked back to the trail at the point
where it crossed Highway 120. Heading north, I passed through a pack
station that supplied horses for trail rides. I wasn’t sure I was on the
trail, but a female wrangler assured me that I was. The trail followed
the river for a distance and then headed overland, crossed a footbridge, passed
several notable waterfalls, and finally made a steep descent to a footbridge
that crossed the Tuolumne River just below White Cascade Falls.
Across
the river was the Glen Aulin High Sierra Camp, a dude camp for tourists who
hiked in from Tuolumne Meadows for an overnight stay in a rustic setting.
The cabins appeared to be canvas wall tents with wooden frames, of which
there were about ten, plus a combination dining hall/cook shack and facilities
for showers and restrooms; the camp was full, and I arrived just as the dinner
bell was sounded.
At the
clang of the dinner bell, almost in unison, the doors of the cabins opened and
the occupants emerged and moved in a single file towards the dining hall.
They looked like so many subjects in one of Ivan Pavlov experiments, the
Russian psychologist who could get dogs to salivate even before food was placed
before them, just by hearing the ringing of a bell.
The camp
also had a campsite set aside for backpackers, and this was where I headed.
Facilities at the camp included compost outhouses and potable water from
spigots located throughout the camp. I selected a flat spot close to a
stream and set up my tent. There were only a few other hikers in the
camp, and it was here that I met, for the first time, the two Germans from
Berlin – Biers and Ranch, a couple who were students and/or teaching assistants
at the university in Berlin. Later in the evening, another German hiker
joined them whose trail name was Viking and who lived in Iceland.
Because
of my diet, constipation has been a serious problem for me since the beginning
of the trip. Eating three or four flour tortillas, Clif Bars and
PowerBars a day hasn’t been terribly conducive to daily regularity. One
day without a bowel movement is irritating; two days without a bowel movement
spells trouble; and three days or more without such a movement could mean a
trip to the hospital.
As was my
usual routine, I awoke early and prepared to leave while it was still dark.
Today was the morning of the third day without a bowel movement, and I was
greatly concerned. I grabbed my headlamp and headed for the compost outhouse,
where I labored for over two hours trying to take care of business.
Applying constant abdominal pressure during this two-hour stint, I was
afraid I was going to blow a gasket or cause an aneurysm before I could get
contents of the bowel to move. From here on, I would have my wife start
packing stool softeners and dried prunes in my resupply boxes.
I may
have spoken too soon about being out of the Sierras and not having any more
major streams to ford. I didn’t count all of the streams that I crossed
in the next seventy-six miles, but there were many, and according to trail
angel Thumper, who I met back at Tuolumne Meadows, he said there were nine
major crossings in 2011, all of which were waist-deep or deeper. Leaving
Glen Aulin, the trail entered Cold Canyon, and then made a long traverse to the
head of Virginia Canyon and Return Creek.
In a
high-water year, Return Creek would be a monster of a river crossing.
This is where death or dismemberment could occur. Virginia Canyon
was a steep, straight shot down the mountain canyon and the crossing was just
feet above a waterfall chock-full of massive boulders. A slip or an
unchecked fall with backpack still strapped to a hiker’s back could see the
hiker going over the falls, with little chance of rescue. Before leaving
for the hike, I had watched YouTube videos of this crossing from previous
years, which really made me nervous as I approached it. Fortunately, this
was a low-snow year, which meant an easier, but still apprehensive crossing.
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