Whenever I am in San Francisco, which is at least twice a year (go to and coming from ships), I try to make it out to Yosemite National Park for an overnight or longer. It has many diverse trail systems that can be strung together for a day hike, an overnight, a weekend trip or a longer excursion. It's accessible by public transportation, or it's a straightforward (four-hour) drive from San Francisco. It's one of the most awe-inspiring parks in the country, and it's free with my national parks annual pass.
So I headed to Yosemite on my semi-annual ritual of escape. Since it's mid-April, the majority of the park is snowbound, so I headed to Hetch Hetchy Reservoir in the Northwestern part of the park. That part of the park is at a lower elevation, despite being extremely picturesque (it has towering granite formations as well) and riddled with trails that can make a good overnight, weekend or long weekend's worth of camping.
My goal was to spend three nights out on the trail, pushing the limits of my day pack and my stoveless approach. The temperature at night would plunge to low 40s, and I had to carry all my food for the entire trip. I packed light, strapped a few extras on to the pack, and headed out.
I got there and immediately realized how early in the year it was. Most ranger stations were closed. The park was deserted. Half Dome was blanketed in snow (that didn't show up on the webcam!!). Good thing I had already decided against trying to connect Tuolomne Meadows with the Valley. My snow shoes and crampons were still on the East Coast...
After checking out the Valley (Yosemite Falls was positively exploding from the snowmelt), getting some last-minute supplies and a bear canister, I headed up to Hetch Hetchy. It's about an hour's drive from the Valley, but the whole trip is an experience. I felt as if I were already on the trail, since I was already surrounded by nature and lovely vistas, and completely alone.
A quick stop at the ranger station at the entrance to Hetch Hetchy gave me an outline of current conditions. There was lots of snow, so my initial planned route was off the table. A look at the map and some snowpack reporting lead me to a backup plan. I secured my wilderness permit, and off I went. I parked the car, repacked my pack with the bear canister, took a quick picture, and headed out.
All trails leaving from the Hetch Hetchy Reservoir cross the O'Shaughnessy Dam, built for hydroelectric power and water supply for San Francisco.
A quick jaunt around the reservoir brought me to the trailhead, with its 7 switchbacks and 1500' climb. An hour and three minutes later, I was at the top of the switchbacks, and continued to book it towards Miguel Meadow, where I would spend the night. With just two hours of daylight left, I was looking good.
That plan very rapidly came to a halt, as a few minutes down the trail, I look up to see two black bear cubs hurtling up a tree. Because their worried mother stood at the base of said tree, encouraging them up to safety. Safety from me.
Oh.
Hi Mama.
Now I've seen bears before in the wild, but never this close. She's 10 long steps away. And never mother bears who have just sent her cubs to safety. Because they're worried about me being a threat. All the PSAs and do's-and-don't's about bear interaction and bear safety come clamoring into my head. "Uh, hi bear?" I offer, frozen in place. I probably don't want to scare her off, so I shouldn't make myself bigger. I shouldn't make a lot of noise, but I'm not trying to sneak up on her. She knows I'm here, though.
Ok, she's looking at me, but looks away and wanders around the base of the tree. Out comes the camera. Cool. I slowly back away. And start talking to her. The old staple of "Hey, bear" comes to mind.
I circle wide around some standing water on the other side of the trail (the bear tree is about 10' off the trail on the left) and get to some rocky outcroppings, giving me high and open ground. I'm "Hey, bear"-ing the whole time, and Mama seems to be unconcerned. She lies down at the bottom of her tree. Ok, cool. Picture time.
I've lost track of Mama, but the cubs are eyeing me, and I feel a little foolish perched on a rock, still "Hey, bear"-ing to keep my confidence up (and to appease the PSAs running through my head). Then Mama gets up and ambles over to me. "Hey, bear" quickly switches to "Ok, Mama, you're coming over to me, so that means you can't attack because that's just plain not fair, and this is my rock."
She's unconvinced, and comes and takes a drink in the puddle separating us. Ok. Cool.
Then she wades in.
Uh. "Hey, bear?"
Let's play my-side-your-side.
Then the cubs come scrabbling down from their tree, bored of being safe. Ooookay...
And Mama goes and joins them, and takes them foraging. Whew. I'm free to move on up the trail, after they safely vacate it. I stand for a good 15 minutes, watching them maul apart fallen tree trunks for the bugs, lift boulders and snuffle in the leaves. Cute.
Well, daylight is in short supply, and they're not likely to do anything different for the next few minutes. And they can't decide to kill me if I'm not there. So onward I go.
To Gravel Pit Lake, a short jaunt from Miguel Meadow, and a likely place for a good campground. The concerning thing is that on the half-mile side trail to the lake, I see another Mama bear and her one cub. They go shooting off into the trees as soon as they hear me, but will they shoot off into the trees when I'm asleep at night? And I'm planning on camping just two tenths of a mile from the spot... I decide to continue and keep a wary lookout in my hour of camp-setting and cooking.
I find the predicted perfect campsite overlooking the lake, with enough daylight left to gather some firewood. I'm going stoveless, but I counted on building fires to be able to cook my dinners. Hot dinners are the anchor of the day, especially at altitude and especially when there's snow on the ground. Luckily Yosemite is very accommodating with plenty of deadfall firewood, many established fire rings at backcountry campsites, and a low fire danger at the time. Less weight and gear in my pack, then. I make dinner and pitch my tent to the chorus of bullfrogs throughout the lake (man, they are loud, but that means no bears around. Whew). The sun goes down, the temperature starts to drop, the bullfrogs get louder in the chorus, the fire starts to die, and I settle down for the night.
The next day will bring snowpack up to 3' deep, hazardous near-freezing creek crossings, more bear encounters and lost trails resulting in map-and-compass navigation.
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