Batter Up & Hitting the Wall

Almost in between jobs, my second-oldest son and I get out of town early and head southeast for a 2-night stay in a canvas tent in Yosemite's Curry Village. The only other times I have been to Yosemite Valley were in winter. The first of those trips involved rain; the other 2 trips involved snow. All of the trips involved sleeping inside my own tent in Camp 4, the Valley's walk-in campground frequented by the frugal, the wall-climbers, and those who just want a place to sleep.

Previously reliant on friends who serve as guides, this trip is the first for which I am expected to lead and to know the answers. These are generally not good things, but I step up to the plate and swing the best I can. We find out tent, #559, which looks like this:


My son and I select our respective beds, fit them with the supplied sheets and wool blankets, then head out to find things. Over the next couple of days we will orient ourselves, figure out the Valley's shuttle system, learn some geology, spend time minutes prowling through the Valley at night, get into a brief and silly argument with someone who came too close to running us over in a parking lot, eat overpriced food, and generally play tourist. That night after dinner, we make our way to the visitors' center to watch the hour-long film Return to Balance by "world-renowned climber Ron Kauk," of whom I have no knowledge. We had purchased our tickets earlier that afternoon, and those tickets were, in turn, taken by a man who reminds me of my friend Shawn, someone with climbing experience in his own right. My son and I find seats, and just before the movie starts, the ticket-taker introduces himself as that same Ron Kauk. It's nice to see someone who is "world-renowned" taking tickets at his own movie.

I am too fat and cowardly to climb my way into or out of anything more than a bathtub, and I envy people who have the confidence to work their way up anything other than the corporate ladder. I also enjoy the film and Kauk's question-and-answer period afterward. Someone in the audience asks him if he has a "day job," and Kauk says that he once worked for 3 weeks as a dishwasher, but otherwise has been fortunate enough to not have had a day job. (Over the next couple of days my son and I will articulate how enjoyable life would be if we could call Yosemite our place of business.)

The second day includes a relatively short but, for us, strenuous hike toward Upper Yosemite Falls. Our destination is the Columbia Rock overlook, from where we get a very nice view of distant Half Dome, which looks like this.

Because we got a somewhat late start, we sweat a lot during the hike; my shirt will be soaked by the time we finish. The sign at the bottom of the trail mentions that there are 60 switchbacks to Columbia Rock. I hate switchbacks. I understand their design and efficiency, but I don't have to like them. More tired than I should be, part way into the climb I resort to mentally reciting lyrics to songs I know, trying to match the song's rhythm to my pace. I also think of what I read last night in Kominski's "13: Baseball Supernovellete":

Give me guys with passion for the game. Believers in unbelievable finishes. Go about their business never getting too high or too low. Hearts strong enough to last a whole season. The game gives you three strikes and 27 outs. You do the rest.

I'm not sure why this bounces into my conscious, but I'm glad it does. Somehow and in some way this little excerpt figures into hiking and backpacking: take what you've got, and put one foot in front of the other. Later that night when I reflect on the quote and revisit images of Kauk's movie, I think that Kominski's little quote applies to climbing, too--"Hearts strong enough to last the whole season." In some situations, after all, quitting mid-way through something really isn't a viable option.

In mid-afternoon we stroll leisurely with a Ranger-led walk during which we learn a bit about Yosemite's geology. Strangely, or perhaps just coincidentally, the Ranger covers material similar to what I'd read that morning and the night before in Mary Hill's Geology of the Sierra Nevada. It's a pleasant stroll, but my son and I both are nursing sore legs and stiff backs from that morning's hike. Then, after dinner, we venture out on the aforementioned "prowling," basically a guided tour with about 20 other people. We walk without flashlights, and after our eyes have adjusted, we all grow quite comfortable in light offered mostly by the stars. At one point my son and I can see what must be a climber's flashlight high up on a wall on the other side of the valley.

I slept very little the first night (which gave me time to read), but I sleep well the second. I awake as refreshed as I can be after sleeping in a bed not my own, and after breakfast we pack the car, lock the tent behind us, and head home. On the way out of the Park we stop across from El Capitan and look up. The granite face looks like this:

Looking up at this wall and searching for something that does not belong, I see light reflecting off something shiny. At least one climber, maybe two--too high for me to see clearly, and I lament my decision to leave the binoculars at home. I point to the spot, and I am glad that my son also sees something that does not belong there. We marvel. Later, outside the park and descended into a different valley, we listen to Beethoven's Symphony #9 for part of the journey, and my son takes over the wheel--I know he wants to drive, and I trust him to get us home. I consider the last couple of days and think that I should have taken him and his brothers to Yosemite many years ago, when they were more impressionable. But, I'm hopeful that I am not too late in showing them even little parts of the world. That they will know, in Kominksi's words, "...do the rest."