A FORGOTTEN ROAD
Yosemite Valley welcomes me with pink dogwoods and sunny skies as I arrive on a Friday in October. The air is temperate and slightly smoky from a nearby fire. My friend James pulls up as I pitch the tent at North Pines Campground. He greets me with a smile; adventures are in store.
We set out on an afternoon hike along the old Big Oak Flat Road. It was once the main road into Yosemite Valley from the north until sections of it were wiped out by rock slides in the 1940s (see archival photo here). Though the road is hardly suitable for vehicles now, hikers can still navigate the washed out sections of talus and overgrowth. It leads to Rainbow View, an old lookout named for its view of Bridalveil Falls and the rainbows it produces.
Sure enough, approaching the old lookout, I notice a shimmer of red in the spray of the falls. Gradually, the rest of the colors of the rainbow come to life in psychedelic fashion.
Across the valley to the south, the famous Tunnel View vista bustles with crowds. A constant flow of cars and tour buses cycle through the parking lot. We have Rainbow View all to ourselves.
Firewood and bourbon await us back at the campsite. Dusk turns to night as we hike back. A clearing in the trees reveals El Capitan, lit up like an otherworldly Christmas tree by the headlamps of climbers.
AN ENCOUNTER
In the morning, we start up the John Muir Trail to Nevada Fall, meandering through patches of fall color. Veering off the main trail above the falls, a faint trail marked with rock piles weaves through the woods towards our destination: the Diving Board. With its unparalleled views of Half Dome's sheer face, the Diving Board is another hidden gem of Yosemite.
Leading the way through the woods, I turn a corner and stop in my tracks.
"Oh shit, that's a bear!"
Ninety feet ahead, the animal turns at the sound of my voice. Wilderness instincts kick in; I yell and wave my arms, James does the same. The bear is either spooked by our loud noises, or just doesn't care to hear them any longer, and trots away.
We continue along, yelling every few minutes to keep the bear away. The sloping backside of Half Dome looms large overhead as we pass the dry bed of Lost Lake. Our yelps echo off the granite mass.
AN AIRY LEDGE
After some steep sections of loose soil and a bit of bushwhacking, we reach the final ridge. A massive slab of granite juts out at a slant over the valley floor far below.
Scrambling along a crack in the sloped granite, we advance to the Diving Board. At the famous ledge where Ansel Adams shot his photo, "The Monolith", the view of Half Dome opens up.
No string of superlatives can adequately describe the visceral, supreme vantage point of the Diving Board. Perched directly next to Half Dome's sheer face, it's a revelation of scale and beauty.
Birds fly far below. We linger for hours, soaking in the glory of Half Dome, dangling our feet over the cliff's edge. Light softens in the valley as the sun drifts westward.
The hike back to camp is well lit by the full moon. Elated but tired, we clomp down the mountain, yelling out "hey bear!" every so often to avoid another encounter with our furry friend.
A STEEP GULLY
Sunlight washes through the valley, waking birds and campers alike. We start up the steep, boulder-filled gully between Cathedral Rocks and Cathedral Spires. The gully is full of big-leaf maples, forming a beautiful yellow canopy surrounded by towers of stone.
The scramble takes us from the floor of the valley to the rim at a steep incline; our quads are burning as we reach the summit of Higher Cathedral Rock. The reward is yet another stunning view. Just across the valley, El Capitan asserts its place in the landscape.
Time drifts along slowly at the summit of Higher Cathedral Rock. I prepare lunch. James meditates.
Voices echo off the granite below us. There must be a team of climbers on one of the Cathedral Spires. I scan the towers with my binoculars. Sure enough, near the summit of Upper Cathedral Spire I spot a team of three. They're dwarfed by the massive rock, only visible through binoculars. I watch their steady progress up the tower.
Before we leave, I spend a while just staring at El Capitan, trying to burn the view into my mind.
Back in the gully, we check the progress of the climbers on the spire. Just as I look through the binoculars, the lead climber steps onto the summit. I pass the binoculars to James as the second and third climbers follow suit. They appear as tiny dots atop the tower.
After the hike, James heads home and I continue eastward in the fading light.
AN EXPLOSION OF COLOR
My camp for the night is at a natural hot spring near Crowley Lake. Moonlight illuminates the rising steam as some fellow travelers welcome me to the spring. We share stories and travel advice. The hot water soothes my weary legs, readying them for tomorrow's adventure.
Nowhere in California boasts a better display of fall colors than the Eastern Sierra, and I seem to have timed this trip perfectly with the changing leaves. The valleys are rich with color. I wander from one alpine lake to another, reveling in the swaths of yellow and orange.
The mountains are adorned with great gradients of color. Two weeks ago the trees were green. Two weeks from now their nearly-bare branches will cling to their last brown leaves.
On my way down from the mountains, nature treats me with a dreamy scene: a sparkling waterfall surrounded by golden aspens.
A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST
East of the Sierra in the Owens Valley, a dirt road through the Volcanic Tablelands takes me to several petroglyph sites. Etched into the dark volcanic tuff, the mysterious designs conjure images of ancient scenes in my mind.
Tonight I have the hot spring to myself. The tub affords sweeping views of Long Valley and its surrounding mountains, lit by the moon. Drowsiness sets in quickly.
At 4AM, I wake and head south again; back to the petroglyphs to photograph them in the moonlight. I navigate through the rocky plateau to a stunning panel of petroglyphs known as Sky Rock. Owls flutter by overhead as I climb atop one of the tallest adjacent boulders.
Sky Rock reveals itself, looking absolutely cosmic in the dark volcanic landscape.
The designs shimmer in the silver light. The horizon starts to glow. Several hundred feet away, I find another petroglyph panel. Large circles dot the massive boulder, interspersed with geometric designs and a lone human figure. Some of the etchings have been painted over in faint red pigment.
I sit and contemplate the petroglyphs as the light changes. The mountaintops start to glow pink, calling me back to explore them.
A TECHNICOLOR CANYON
Back in the mountains, I trek along McGee Creek into a large canyon. Stark, jagged peaks give way to carpets of color.
Every hiker I meet along the trail greets me in high spirits. It's hard to be anything but cheerful in this vibrant valley. Lost in thought, I drift through the falling leaves.
I leave McGee Canyon, weaving north through ribbons of orange and yellow. After several long days of hiking, I'm ready to sleep in a real bed. But there's one last hidden pocket of color to investigate before the drive home.
A BLUE DOT ON THE MAP
While planning this trip several weeks ago, something on the satellite map caught my eye: a small lake, nestled in the mountains, glowing bright blue like a sapphire. I scanned the surrounding area; it was full of lakes, but none of them were as blue as this one. Was it just an anomaly of the satellite imagery, or could it actually be such a stunning hue? Further searches online didn't uncover much information besides a trail that passes nearby.
So here I am at the trailhead, starting my final hike of the trip, determined to see this mysterious body of water with my own eyes. The trail climbs uphill through a chain of charming lakes. Typically, I would stop and admire each one, but not today. Hustling to beat the setting sun, I veer off-trail and huff up the final ridge.
Cresting the ridge, I see it below: an alpine gem of the bluest blue.
A shiver runs through my body. My heart rate races. Even after a trip full of vibrant, eye-popping colors, my wildest imaginations of the lake were absolutely smashed by this impossible color.
Overflowing with exuberance, I holler into the hanging valley. The ridge affords incredible views of Mono Lake and the Yosemite High Country, but I can't tear my gaze from the stunning blue lake.
I sit atop a rocky perch to admire the view. The mountain's shadow creeps across the shore of the lake. In fifteen minutes, the lake will be fully shaded, robbed of its vibrancy.
Until then, I sit and stare into the blue.
Footnotes:
Rock art sites are sacred places. Please respect any rock art you encounter, do not touch, do not share unpublished locations, and leave no trace.