Yosemite in Winter

from Mountains of Light

Rising from my sleeping bag, I crawl out of the tent and hike around the frosted meadows. The sun is just peeking over Glacier Point and lights up the bare granite rock of North Dome and the meadow below with a warm yellow glow. In Cook’s Meadow, acorn woodpeckers hop up the trunks of dead trees, picking out acorns they stored there in the fall. By Sentinel Bridge, three young bucks hang out looking for trouble, their breaths coming out in small white puffs. 

The quiet, crystalline beauty of a winter dawn in the mountains fills my eyes, my heart, and my soul with joy.

The crow in a nearby tree makes a gurgle noise repeatedly. It's a funny sound, and each time the crow caws, its tail goes down. By Swinging Bridge, a square chunk of light gray granite that was washed downstream by the spring flood, now sits on the edge of a reflecting pool of emerald green.

A white lace of ice edges the banks of the calm, meandering Merced River; its tranquil water reflects the early blue of the young morning sky. An ouzel flies up and dances in the rapids flowing over a two-foot-stretch of pebbles. 

Taking a physical inventory, I find that my only warm place is in the small of my back. It’s seriously cold today, and the moist air near the river penetrates my coat. Shivering, I adjust my clothing and try to get warmer but without success, and head to the cafeteria for a hot breakfast. Then it's back outside to see more of the valley in this early light. Later in the morning, I duck into Degnan's for hot coffee. At noon I heat up soup.

When the sun reaches Camp 4, it’s finally warm enough to take off one layer of clothing. After hours of shivering, my body relaxes, and I head off on another hike.