Boundaries

(photo of the top of Yosemite Falls)

We all have boundaries that we don’t want to cross, whether they are emotional, physical, or mental, because we get comfortable where we are.

Taking risks and crossing physical boundaries isn’t a problem for me. Late one October, I traveled to Yosemite anticipating a week of dry, cool, but sunny weather. Perfect for hiking through the glories of fall. One morning I came out of my tent to find that winter had moved in and the mountains around me had turned white. I went on a hike to the top of Yosemite Falls because I wanted to see what this looked like.

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On the switchbacks going up the canyon wall, snow begins to appear at the 6000-foot elevation. It gets deeper the higher I go, making the upward hike slippery and a little dicey.

I go around a bend and hit a blast of frigid wind funneling down. Zipping my jacket up, I pull my hood down over my head and cinch it tight, imagining that I am one of the French voyageurs battling harsh weather as they paddled across windy Lake Superior. Then I think of Sigurd Olson canoeing there a century after them, in the Boundary Waters between Minnesota and Canada, seeing beauty in the wildness and listening to the voices of nature around him.

Higher up, the trail has iced over. I dig my feet into the snow on the sides and waddle the last hundred yards. Three hours after starting out, I reach the top. The snow is a foot deep and undisturbed. I don’t see the tracks of any wildlife, not even the mountain lion that lives up here. At 8,000 feet, whatever sounds arise are quickly hushed by the snow.

My original plan was to head west for the top of El Capitan, but I think the trail going east to North Dome may have less snow. Neither trail is anywhere to be seen, and if there is ice and deep snow here, then it’s likely that the same conditions exist over the length of both trails. I head off anyway, because I do things like this, figuring that if I can see part of the trail now and then, I will be okay. But after twenty minutes of tromping around through snow that is now above my knees, I can’t find either trail.

There are boundaries I should not play with. This may be one of them.

I consider my options. Both trails run along the edge of the valley wall and a slip could be fatal. I could also fall into a snow-filled crevasse, break an ankle, and be buried. It’s unlikely that anyone else will hike up here today. I calculate how much more I can push my luck to make this work.

There is a difference between crossing a boundary and being foolhardy.

Finally I decide that this is as far as I can safely go. I watch Yosemite Creek trickling down, then slide carefully over snow-covered rocks to the lip of Yosemite Falls. Its thin stream flows over the edge like water being poured from a pitcher, unlike the powerful surge and thunderous roar of the waterfall in spring.

I am perched on the boundary between life and death. One wrong move and I cross over. I look up. Stretched out before me are hundreds of square miles of frozen wilderness. I listen to the silence of the dark, slate-blue Sierra Nevada Mountains topped with a blanket of white, and I am in awe of their raw beauty.

Challenging the boundary has opened a door.