Back in the Day

Today's news included an item about three souls who ventured into a prohibited place in Yosemite Park and managed to go over Vernal Falls.  I'm betting it's the last time any of those three will ignore well placed signs advising a halt to forward progress.  Or any other sign.  Darwinism at work.  That sounds harsh, but if you've ever seen the place they were, in person, you'd understand my lack of compassion.

I have seen the place, and this news reminded me of a day long ago, when I was there.  Really, it was long, LONG, ago when two exceptionaly fit seventeen year olds had nothing to do one day.  Danny and I had been in the park for several days doing nothing more than working on our tans at Stoneman's Beach, by the river, or at Eyeball Beach in Camp Curry. 

Stoneman's is on the Merced River at, naturally enough, Stoneman Bridge.  Everybody on the planet can google "Stoneman Bridge" and find it with ease.  Try googling "Eyeball Beach".  Only the initiated will know where that is.  Don't worry folks, I'm about to make you experts in the field of Yosemite Locations circa 1960.  I'm gonna tell you where it is.

Camp Curry was a middle class city of cabin tents that visitors rented by the day or week while they stayed in the Park.  I say it's middle class because all the yahoos, like Danny and I, would pitch Coleman tents, or just throw a bedspread, corners pegged to the ground,  over a line strung between two trees, in one of several campgrounds.  Rich people would stay at Yosemite Lodge, in wooden cabins.  The WEALTHY would stay in the Ahwahnee Lodge, a five star hotel.  The tent cabins in Camp Curry was where everyone else stayed.

Danny and I were much more comfortable attempting to woo middle class girls, so when we tired of Stoneman's Beach, we'd head to Camp Curry to see what was happening there.  Curry had several restaurants, a gift shop and a post office and lounge.  The post office and lounge area was directly across a pine needle strewn walkway, maybe two hundred feet wide, from the restaurant and gift shop.  That walkway, my friends, was eyeball beach.  We would sit on the steps leading to the Post Office and watch as the young ladies walked by.  Usually, several would be bored enough to stop and talk with us.  All the guys knew where eyeball beach was, and visited regularly.  It used to be fun being a teenager. 

One day, we both tired of doing the same thing every day, so we cast about looking to do something different.  Something we had never done before.  It was right in front of us.  Half Dome. 

I had heard about a trail, one that went up the backside of the sheer face for years, but knew nothing about it.  I asked Danny if he'd like to help figure out how to climb it. 

Wow!  Something to do!  Not only did he say yes, he jumped at the idea.  "Let's do it!" 

We went to Park Headquarters and talked with a Ranger.  He told us to start at Happy Isles.  "Take the trail to Vernal Falls, and then go on up to Half Dome, past Nevada Falls.  The signs are all there.  By the way, it's 8 miles up there and 8 miles back.  Are you up for that distance?" 

We sure were.  Off we went.  We jogged the entire way to Vernal, crossed the creek where we should, not where the three hapless swimmers at the beginning of this tale tried and failed, and then, after crossing Nevada Falls,  encountered the biggest, meanest mosquitoes I've ever seen.  They were all over us. Instead of jogging, we ran the next four miles. 

We stopped running when we reached the cables. In 1962, there was only one set of cables, now there are two.  This picture shows maybe fifty people climbing up to the top of the mountain, that little line of black dots in the picture to the right.  And yes, it's steeper than it looks.  A whole lot steeper.  Each dot is a climber, and I assure you that was not the case back in 1962.  Danny and I had the place all to ourselves.  There were no others going up, no one else at the top, and no one to trip over, climbing, as we were coming down.  This picture shows just exactly why I have not been inside the park in over twenty years.  I consider it the place I grew into a man, but my home turf has become overrun by strangers with whom I have nothing in common. 

They do not understand the beauty, actively work to destroy that beauty by tossing litter from one end of the valley to the other,  steal any camping gear left in the open, and create so much noise and confusion that no one within the confines of the twenty one square miles can appreciate what they are seeing.  Not only do they disregard the litter laws, they ignore signs designed to keep them alive.  My home has been ruined by uncaring people.  It's a shame.

We climbed the cables, Danny and I, and at the top we crawled on our bellies to the very edge where we could see Mirror Lake, almost a mile straight down below us.  It took real courage to crawl to that edge; I never before realized I was frightened by heights.  Funny that, by this time in my life I was already a pilot, and had never before been affected by being a mile or more off the ground.  This time I had no wings to protect me. 

We rested for ten or fifteen minutes, and then turned back and started down the mountain.  Again, we ran the whole way.  The wind was at our backs, our legs were powerful and filled with youth; our lungs unaffected by cigarettes and smog.   We were strong in those days.

Sixteen miles?  Climb almost a mile?  Sure!  Why not, it's only one o'clock in the afternoon.  If we start now, we'll be back way before dark.  An old man remembers how it feels to be invincible.  Back in the day.