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“Welcome home,” Yosemite beckons.
Birthday musings on my love for Yosemite
On our way to Yosemite, we have found our way home.
Tyler stands near the top of the aptly-named “death slabs” as we approach the base of Half Dome’s sheer, northwest face. Our route up the face largely travels left of the prominent, dark, water streak that runs down the middle of the face.
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What do you love about Yosemite?
Upon leaving Yosemite after an incredible, revitalizing week with friends, I was prompted by my good friend and an incredible documentary filmmaker, Tava, with the question, “what do you love about Yosemite?” My response, and a loose, edited transcript, are below.
Tava posed this question to the whole group, most of whom had been living in the Valley for the week prior. He combined the answers he recorded with inspiring footage that he had shot around the Valley, culminating in a truly touching short film that can be viewed here, and is also embedded below. I am honored that some of my musings made the cut.
My Full Response
I had just recently completed an ascent of Half Dome’s Regular Northwest Face over the last few days with a couple of incredible climbing partners, Tyler and Kyle. After this multi-day excursion, I was exhausted and in no state to be answering such an open-ended question! So I took a few days to unwind, think intentionally about my experiences in Yosemite, and write out some thoughts. I ended up sending Tava the following recording, of which snippets can be heard in Tava’s video above
(Loose) Transcript
“What do I love about Yosemite?
Where do I even start? What is there not to love? That is a really tough question to answer!
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There is something ineffable about the experience of existing in such an inspiring and powerful place that is simultaneously so soothing and gentle. The Valley, in particular, is an indescribable place that leads to indescribable experiences, and that pervades whether you seek to actively engage with the expansive trail systems or looming rock walls, or if you choose to coexist passively by simply being mindful and present. To experience Yosemite, in any way, is to blur the line between self and world - to let go of one’s ego as it dissolves into the expansive landscape around you.
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There is a quote I really love from John Muir, and I think of it often when I am in the Valley. He considers, “I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”
When we go out and experience the natural world, we are presented with an opportunity to experience and learn about not only the world that surrounds us, but also that which exists within us. An experience outside is simultaneously an experience within. And, ultimately, I believe having experiences of all kinds is what life is all about. Experiences fill our hearts and nurture our souls in a way that material matters just cannot. And it is in these experiences and the emotions they evoke that we find our sense of home.
Home is not a house, home is not a bed, home is not a physical place at all. I think it is not in a specific location, but anywhere that we are able to relish in the beauty of experience.
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So, when we gather around the campfire each night, deep in the Valley, we feel a warmth - not of flame, but of friendship, emanating from the circle of glowing smiles and hearty laughter.
In this warmth, we find home.
When we set out to scale the towering rock walls that guard the Valley, we are pushed to our limits - forced to dig deep and test our mettle. And though the imposing towers and domes of granite are solid and unyielding, they show us that something within us is equally durable and persistent. They ignite in us a newfound self-confidence.
In this challenge, we find home.
When we lie somewhere deep in the meadows, close our eyes, and open our ears, we are immediately enveloped by the percussive symphony of roaring waterfalls, rushing river rapids, and thundering rockfall that drown out any signs of our human presence there. The sounds of the Valley remind us that though we are strong and pervasive, there are forces at play whose scales still escape our comprehension.
In this humility, we find home.
As we bike around the Valley floor, we are greeted by flora and fauna around every turn - butterflies and birds, squirrels and deer, mighty oaks and tall pines, blooming dogwoods and lupines. Each stroke of the pedal takes us deeper into this haven brimming with life.
In this beauty, we find home.
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We left our houses, took time off from our jobs, departed from our cities, and ventured off to meet each other in Yosemite. We left all these things that feel like home, that feel like us. But the moment we arrive - when we emerge from that long, Wawona tunnel - we find that we haven’t truly gone away. In fact, it feels more like a return.
A return to a place that, even upon first glance, feels so undoubtedly familiar. It draws us in with a voice we cannot place, though we know we have heard it before. It calls to something deep inside of us, and we cannot resist. Whether it is our first time or our fiftieth in the Valley, we cannot help but slide easily into the flow of Valley life, in a way that seems to come more easily than anything we have found in the places we left to get here.
On our way to Yosemite, we have found our way home.”
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A backlit Half Dome, as seen from Glacier Point during a beautiful sunrise
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The Valley
The steep, valley walls tower above us, pushing out the sun. They instead welcome us wide-eyed wanderers into the cool, shaded embrace of their glaciated faces. A lush blanket of evergreens cushions the valley floor, though here, against a backdrop of soaring cliffs and imposing, stone domes, grand pines that would normally stand tall and proud over a landscape instead find themselves crouching timidly below.
In this rocky realm, the sun’s reign is short. At the close of each day, shadows march up northwest faces at dusk’s command, extinguishing the final embers of daylight. But in the ensuing darkness emerge pockets of light that belie the inhospitable nature of the Valley’s walls. These lights spin and flicker as they scan for a path upward. They slowly dance their way up the seemingly blank, unscalable walls, like disoriented dinghies navigating a vast, granite ocean. A couple of these scattered souls finally pull themselves over the summit lip after many hours, or even days, of incomparable exertion, joining the ranks of the few who have scaled the mighty monoliths guarding the valley below.
The only form that appears to navigate these massive escarpments with any sort of ease is the water. Cold, crisp streams of snowmelt race across the High Sierra, quickly gaining momentum as they hurtle towards the rim of the precipice. Tributaries flow into each other and grow larger, like capillaries feeding into an artery, until they form a veritable torrent that screams towards the edge, culminating in an explosive leap, thousands of feet above the valley floor. In an act of defiance against gravity itself, thousands of gallons of water burst over the brink, finding themselves untethered, weightless, floating, in an ethereal space suspended in air and time. But the illusory stasis of free fall collapses just as rapidly as it arises. The thundering waterfall succumbs to gravity’s persistence, pummeling down to the valley floor, where it regroups with the Merced.
The morning fog hangs low to the ground. It does not stray far from the waterways as it winds its way down the valley like a serpent, sluggishly slithering through the treetops. The river of fog meanders on, in no apparent rush to escape the impending heat of day. Dawn’s early light emanates through the valley well before the sun can peek over lofty, eastern summits. The southeast aspect of El Capitan is the first of the slumbering valley giants to be awoken by warm tendrils of sunlight brushing gently across its face. Blushing resplendently in the early morning light, El Cap ushers in the new day. The rushing river and cascading falls provide a constant rumbling through the night, but as the day grows, so does the ensemble of sounds that builds upon this auditory backdrop. The wind rustles through oak leaves and pine needles, small creatures stir in the bushes and scamper across branches, and songbirds fill the air with their mellifluous melodies.
And at last, campgrounds begin to stir. A few motivated souls have scampered out before dawn to embark on the kind of grand adventures of which most only dream, and a few others have awoken in the midst of such quests, high on valley walls or deep in the backcountry, but the rest rise in no rush. The sizzling sounds of sustenance are followed closely by friendly chatter and playful laughter. The lightness and simplicity of valley life lifts the hearts and spirits of all who venture here. Some will lean into this calmness, finding comfort in the pockets of stillness sprinkled throughout the forest, meadows, and wading pools. Others will set out in search of modest adventures on the myriad trails, crags, or stretches of river that wander the valley and beyond.
But no matter where our endeavors take us within this wondrous microcosm that is Yosemite Valley, we find an unequivocal sense of belonging. An incontestable feeling that we are exactly where we need to be. In this remarkable paradise, we return to unadulterated joy and curiosity - to the childlike wonder that has retreated deep within us, emerging only through experiences in the natural world. In Yosemite’s grandeur, we return to ourselves. We shed societal restraints, shake off the pressures of our past milieus, and now, newly unmasked and free, we relearn how to simply be. And as we embrace our new selves, Yosemite greets us anew, granite arms outstretched, as if to say “welcome home.”
Cory admires the sunrise view from the Separate Reality cave, high above the Merced as it winds its way out of the Valley. In the distance, Bridalveil Fall glows in the golden light of dawn.
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Looking out across Stoneman Meadow towards the Royal Arches.
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The verdant Valley sure feels like spring with dogwoods blooming all around.
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A few proud, yet exhausted, hooligans stand below Half Dome’s summit cables. After navigating 23 pitches and ~2,200 feet of near vertical granite, we began our descent by schlepping down the unsupported cable to the Sub Dome, where we begin our 8+ mile trek back to the valley floor. Jacob met us at the summit and supported us with much appreciated food, water, and helping hands to lighten our loads for the descent.
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From left to right, Tyler, Kyle, and myself finally stand on the Valley floor again after our successful climb up Half Dome’s Regular Northwest Face, seen in the background.
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