Full Article:
At Vogelsang Camp, Betty tells stories about little people in Tierra del Fuego, Rumanian vampires, and Shangri-La. At 74, Betty still travels the world following the origins of folktales and fables. Listening while I chew on filet mignon, I wonder why I haven’t done this sooner.
My hike around the High Sierra Camps loop trail is a treat after years of schlepping a backpack around Yosemite’s high country. This time all I’m carrying is a daypack.
The five camps are connected by a network of trails winding along the meadows, streams, and glacier-scoured outcrops of Tuolumne Meadows. Ranging from six to ten miles apart, the camps provide good food, hot showers, wool blankets, and great company after a day on the trail.
The man across the table from me shares a bottle of wine he’s carried in from Tuolumne Meadows Camp. I have definitely spent worse nights on the trail than this.
After dinner Betty and I take a seat outside near the creek. At just over 10,000 feet, we’re near the timberline. It’s mid-July, and snow still clings to the shadier patches of Fletcher Peak, which rises high above us. Soon after going to bed, I’m lulled to sleep by soft singing from a nearby cabin.
After a hearty breakfast the next morning, I buy a sack lunch and stick it in my daypack. A bit stiff from the first long hike, my muscles soon loosen as I work my way south along Fletcher Creek.
The last few miles to Merced Camp are through deep forest. Douglas Pine squirrels (also known as chickorys), sound their high-pitched alarms and dash up trees at my approach. I round a corner and on a stump, a young porcupine rises onto his rear legs to smell me better. With a frightening display of quills a foot and a half high, I want nothing to do with him. He’s cute, but hardly cuddly.
I arrive at the Merced River early in the afternoon, take off my dusty boots, and wade in. The water is more than refreshingly cold, and after a minute or so, my feet have turned an odd color of blue. After an afternoon nap, my day is rounded out with another fantastic dinner.
In the morning, I hike with Betty to the trail junction that will take her to Yosemite Valley, and me up the hill to Sunrise Camp.
It’s a long hot dirty walk, but the view of the peaks and meadow are well worth the climb. Sunrise Camp is perched on a rock bench just above Long Meadow. The show starts in the late afternoon as the spectacular peaks of the Cathedral Range and Matthes Crest turn from golden to orange. As the sun begins to sink behind the camp, the alpenglow increases in intensity and color, and soon the peaks are crimson.
At May Lake Camp, I’m greeted by Mt. Hoffman’s watery upside down reflection. It’s my last night, and I wish I’d signed up for another day and a night at Glen Aulin Camp.
I think about Betty, trekking all over the world, looking for lost cities and myths. My twinge of envy disappears as I realize that I’m the lucky one: I’ve found my Shangri-La right here in the Sierra.
September 11, 2014
