Wandering Home

(One day in January a few years ago, I spent an afternoon in the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias in Yosemite.)

Leaving my car at the entrance, I walk slowly through deep snow and let the silence of the sequoia grove wrap around me, moving from one giant tree to the next, placing my hand on the red bark of one hoping to detect its pulse. I feel endurance in the thick red bark.

Beneath my feet I sense its roots connected to the roots of the other trees and feel the strength of community. In its stretched-out branches I see its praise of creation. And in its canopy I know that an ecosystem of life exists, above the visible life that I can see from the forest floor.

I feel insignificant here, and imagine how dwarfed I’d look in a photograph standing next to it. These 3000-year-old elders of the mountains hold centuries of memories in their branches, and in the quietness of the afternoon, I listen to their wisdom.

Beneath trees that John Muir loved, I pick up three dark-green cones and hold them in one hand. It amazes me that cones from trees 300 feet tall and 30 feet around should be so small and their seeds so tiny. Freshly cut down by Douglass squirrels, the cones tightly bind their seeds inside, seeds that hold giant trees waiting to begin their lives. The cones will not open without the intense heat of a forest fire, a fire which also burns away the undergrowth and prepares the soil for the seeds to grow.

100-Year Flood

Eighteen years ago this month, in 1997, Yosemite Valley experienced a 100-year flood. Warm rain melted the snowpack in the high country and all that water flowed into the valley. The damage was so great to the roads and infrastructure that the valley was closed for several months. When minimal facilities were restored and I could get in, I hiked the seven-mile length of the valley, going from the east end by Half Dome to the west, surveying the damage and hoping that the places I loved have survived.

The photo above is at Happy Isles, with trees knocked down and branches piled up on the far bank of the river.

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In Tenaya Canyon, the bridge crossing Tenaya Creek above old Mirror Lake is gone, washed away like many of the other footbridges in this area. I reach the other side by stepping across boulders in the stream. The trail that went along the riverbank disappeared with the riverbank. The tranquil spot by the river that had a reflection of Half Dome overhead is gone.

In many places the water is red-orange, which indicates the presence of iron. There is an actual "Iron Spring" below the lower pool of Mirror Lake that colors the water there, but this coloring is new since the flood and starts just below where Snow Creek joins in. The pine trees in the middle section of Tenaya's landscape are dying, whether this is due to the change in the river's route, damage from the flood, the new presence of iron in the water, an infestation of insects made possible by the environmental changes, or all of the above.

Change one element in nature and the effect ripples throughout the ecosystem.

Zero

This morning before dawn it’s zero degrees out.  

Zero, as if there was no temperature outside. Nothing is moving, no animals or birds, not even the wind. I stand motionless not wanting to ruffle the stillness holding the world.




The frozen sun rises pink on the horizon, shifts to light canary yellow that fades as the sun warms the air to eight degrees. 

Hidden in the stiff, unmoving trees, the unseen longing of leaves is tucked deep inside the wood waiting for spring. Beneath the snow, mice, voles and woodchucks sleep.  

A cardinal comes to the feeder of black sunflower seeds, his brilliant red feathers bright against the white background. Wrens flitter in, then chickadees, and a Downey woodpecker. The birds bring soft chattering to the brittle forest.

Solitude of Trees

Ostrander Hut, Yosemite

In a back issue of The Yosemite Journal, Howard Weamer writes about the Ostrander Hut that is in the area behind Glacier Point. The Hut is ten miles out in the backcountry, at an elevation of 8500 feet, and in winter is accessible only by cross-country skiers. Weamer was its caretaker and host for a good many years, and writes of the wide-ranging discussions that would go on into the night between people of different backgrounds. He also mentions the need for solitude that was often expressed by his visitors: "those who welcome it are assumed to have attained something special."

This phrase stayed with me as I hiked by myself out to the hut one gorgeous autumn day. The stone hut was locked up when I arrived because it’s a winter destination, but I looked in the windows at the tight sleeping quarters, then looked out at the tranquility of the forest, mountains, and the small lake that feeds Bridalveil Creek, and I felt contentment.

Does being comfortable with solitude mean that we have arrived at our goal of attaining solitude? Is there nothing that happens once we arrive? What about self-exploration?

Does solitude lead us into self-awareness, or does self-awareness lead us into solitude?