The Mist Trail

Digital Detox and Yosemite’s Other Rewards

Generally, when there is an Amazon delivery at the front door, I usually know what it is. Tracking informs me of the day and approximate time of arrival. An alert not only tells me it’s here, but there’s a photo of the package sitting out there on the front porch.

Not this time.

When I opened the front door, there it was. Curious, I picked up the unexpected package. It felt like maybe an article of clothing. When I opened it, I found a T-Shirt. My size.

A surprise gift from my kids.

Holding it up to the light, I read out loud -

“Never underestimate an OLD MAN who hiked the Mist Trail”

At this stage of my life, it feels pretty good to know my kids and my grandkids are proud of me.

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Last week, I did it.

From our campsite in Yosemite Valley, I went up Happy Isles to the Bridge crossing that raging river and then all the way to the top of Vernal Falls via the Mist Trail.

With difficulty, I made it. When I reached the top of the trail, I let out a guttural whoop you would have heard echoing through the granite walls of the canyon.

(NOTE: It wasn’t just me. Along with the kids and grandkids, Carolyn made it, too. Truth be told, it was a herculean effort to keep up with her.)

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Yosemite Valley holds a special place in our family history. In 1976, the year Carolyn became pregnant with our first-born (Kristyn), we parked a borrowed motorhome in the Valley with some dear friends (who were also expecting their first). Larry and I left at break of day, up over that same bridge, through the mist to the top of Vernal. But we didn’t stop. We climbed on up to the top of Nevada Fall, to Little Yosemite Valley, and then to the base of Half Dome. Grabbing those historic cables, Larry and I scaled that iconic mass of granite, carved by a series of massive glaciers tens of millions of years ago. Larry and I still talk about the exhilaration of standing at the edge of the precipice, gazing in wonder at the matchless valley below.

Sixteen years later, I wanted our kids to know that exhilaration. We set up our very own travel trailer in Yosemite with our three: Kristyn (16), Candace (14), and Kevin (11). It was 1993. From our site, we loaded our backpacks, carried in tents, sleeping bags, cooking gear, and meals up to Vernal and Nevada, setting up camp in Little Yosemite Valley. Together, from there, all five of us pulled up those same cables to the top of Half Dome.

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When our Grandson got married a few weeks ago, our entire family gathered to celebrate. For the first time in years, our three kids, their spouses, and all fourteen grandchildren were together in one spot. We managed to get that cherished photo - a group shot for the ages.

Our middle daughter, who has lived in Florida for decades now, long dreamed of the day she might share the wonders of Yosemite Valley with her husband and her six growing kids. Just like us, she cherished those memories from 1993. To land campsites in the valley in June of this year would be no small order.

Turns out, her sister, our firstborn, is a specialist in such challenges. She’s a veteran site-getter, having mastered the unique skill of snatching coveted California campsites online. To prepare, she gave about ten of us, including our son, Kevin, an orientation class. We all signed up for an account with the National Park Service and punched in our payment method. In sync, we rehearsed, simulating the moment Valley sites would become available, clicking the right boxes in sequence and then hitting REFRESH over and over. We practised again and again until it became second nature.

When the day came in February, the ten of us were all dutifully stationed at a computer screen, logged in at least ten minutes before the anticipated moment: seven AM Pacific Standard time. All at the ready. The countdown began. Five-Four-Three-Two-One: 7AM!! Us trained, committed collection of techies, from several locations, sprang into our carefully rehearsed routine. Most of us, including me, came up empty-handed. But not all.

Less than five minutes into the effort, our crew managed to land four sites.

Lower Pines Campground. Yosemite Valley.

Yes!

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It’s been a long time since I slept in a tent.

After choosing the site for setup, we pulled the contents of the tent travel case - the ripstop nylon, fiberglass poles, and the rainfly. We had help from our crew threading the poles, clipping the clips, driving the stakes, and zipping the zippers. Then, with a battery-operated air pump, we inflated a mattress that pretty much filled up the floor of our new living quarters. That night, when I crawled into my sleeping bag beside Carolyn, I was grateful for my familiar pillow, which I had stowed in the car from back home. Outside, the stars shone bright, many more than I see at home. The night air put me into a deep sleep that lasted, well, until about midnight.

Whoa! That’s when the calf on my right leg and my two thighs all tightened up into the most painful cramps I’ve known in recent memory. Carolyn, who up until then slept soundly, woke up to my cries of pain and my clumsy efforts somehow to extract myself from my sleeping bag and stand up in a tent not tall enough for this six-footer to go upright. I was in sudden agony, and the only obstacles to the tent’s exit were Carolyn lying there in a state of shock and horror, stretched across the mattress, and an impossible-to-find zipper as my legs screamed in pain. Later, Carolyn confessed that she feared she just might be widowed right there in Yosemite Valley… but somehow, I made my escape, stood upright, and outside the tent, stretched out the cramps.

It didn’t take a physician to diagnose my problem: dehydration. So, I downed a handy bottle of water and crawled back in, expressing my sincere apologies to Carolyn, who by now was wide awake and relieved that she didn’t need to call in the coroner.

The next day, I put away more water than came over Vernal and Nevada combined, some of it fortified with a powder provided by my health-conscious daughter that contained the kind of ingredients you find in energy drinks - and more. Electrolytes. Potassium. Sodium. Magnesium. That sort of thing. We couldn’t find any bananas.

So, whew! That was the last of the cramping.

On the light side, those four days were also a digital detox. No electricity on the site. No cell signal. No WIFI. The phone, the iPad, and the auxiliary batteries all went dead. No national news. No social media. Oh well.

We sat around the fire in the cool of the evening and talked and laughed and reminisced and made S’mores.

Beautiful.

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Over the years, our Florida family has passed along a contagious love for their home state. When we travel there, they take us to the beaches, the springs, the Space Center, Orlando’s memorable spots (their favorite: Sea World), the Keys, the Everglades, and much more. We hike and explore, and I always come home with a priceless collection of video clips and photographs.

This year, thanks to that wedding, our Florida family all made their way to California. And thanks to that morning in February, those paid reservations and our daughter’s dream, we made it to Yosemite. I will never forget emerging from that iconic tunnel that opens up to the incomparable Valley. El Capitan. Bridalveil. The Merced River. And off in the distance - Half Dome.

For the next four days and three nights, this Grandpa will cherish the moments as our family from the shores of the Atlantic Ocean witnessed in jaw-dropping amazement and wonder, this Granite Cathedral in the Sierras - the massive sheer hard rock faces, the rapid currents - crystal clear water gushing over rocks and boulders, dramatic waterfalls, the green valley floor with all its color.

Our oldest Florida grandson, off to college this year, is a perennial fisherman and has been all his life. He brought that skill with him to Yosemite - the Merced River, Emerald Pool, Mirror Lake, and more - pulling out colorful trout with his pole and fly-line at each site, naming the species: Golden, Rainbow, Cutthroat, and Brown. He tossed all those trout back into the clean water out of respect for the fish and the land. “Catch and release,” he calls it.

He was elated.

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The first full day, we geared up for a serious hike.

It’s a hike I’ve made maybe four or five times over my lifetime. But not at age seventy-seven.

The trail from Happy Isles to the top of Vernal is only about 1.5 miles. But it’s more than 1,000 feet of elevation gain. That’s the equivalent of a 100-story building. It’s a serious climb.

I could feel it on the first stretch, to that celebrated bridge over the river. I had a backpack to carry a water supply, trail mix, and my camera equipment. I’ve taken pride in my daily walks over the years, now in the company of Brandy, our Golden Retriever. On average, I log about 8,000 steps per day. But about a half mile out on this hike, I realized that my walking is almost all on level ground. This was uphill. Steep. My Apple Watch told the story - my heart raced to 136 bpm. The strength in my thighs seemed to leave me.

At the bridge, I wondered if maybe that was enough. But I knew the Mist Trail. I was in the company of the people I love the most. No way I was going to turn back. Not even at age seventy-seven.

So off we went - to conquer the Mist Trail. Vernal roared, the colossal river falling more than 300 feet of sheer drop over the edge. In the granite enclosure, the falls create a whirling wind, blowing the mist from the falling water all across the steep terrain, drenching the granite steps and you as you climb. Many on the trail are prepared, covered with rain gear. But not me. I was soaked.

That’s when our oldest, my sweet daughter, noticed that her dad was struggling. She’s fit enough to scamper up the steps effortlessly. But she held back.

“Are you OK, Dad?

“Yeah, I’m good,” I said, panting.

“You know, it’s OK. You don’t have to do this.”

“Thanks, honey. I just need to stop and catch my breath.” Which I did about every ten steps.

“No, really, Dad. You’ve done this many times. There’s nothing to prove.”

I sat down on a wet rock. It was as though we were in a downpour. No thunder. No lightning. A bright blue sky. The perpetual mist creates a garden of green and purple and yellow; moss covers the rough bark on the trees. And below, a beautiful rainbow shines bright, curving in a half circle, glowing with every color on the spectrum, like a promise of something good. Like the anticipation of a reward for all the effort.

I remembered 1993 when our five made it all the way to the top of Half Dome. On the trail, I would ask my kids, “Is the mountain talking to you?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it saying?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s telling you that you can’t make it to the top without some pain. Without pushing yourself past what you think are your limits. It’s asking you if you have what it takes,” I explained like a dutiful dad.

Kristyn stood patiently beside me as I sat on that wet rock, lost in my thoughts with a rainbow down there in view, surrounding the falling water of Vernal.

“OK. Let’s go,” I said.

“Ya good?”

“Yep. I just know how good it is to get to the top. No way I’m turning back.”

Then Kristyn said something to me that I think I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. I want to share it with you. I hope it’s not too selfish of me. It happened right there on the storybook, magical Mist Trail.

“OK dad, I was just thinking. You know all three of us kids have this thing about not quitting. We’ve all pushed ourselves… sometimes to a fault. And so many times, it’s paid off.”

She paused, then she added…

“We got it from you.”

Wow. It’s like my whole life started making sense.

Somehow, the pain went away. I drudged on.

And I made it to the top.

That’s when I let out that “Whoop!” you could hear for miles. My kids and grandkids were already there. They applauded, cheering, “Go Grandpa!”

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There’s more to share from our family’s visit to Yosemite. But this is pretty much what I wanted to tell you.

Good things happen there. Memorable things.

Maybe that’s why John Muir, the preacher’s son, fell in love with the Yosemite Valley. He called it Nature’s Cathedral.

He got it right.