We drove up the Tioga Road, bypassing the Valley entirely, and parked near Tenaya Lake. Shouldering our packs, we crossed Tenaya Creek and began the 1000-foot climb up the side of the canyon. After many switchbacks, the slope eased, and we came to the first of the three Sunrise Lakes right about sunset. There was a campsite already in progress there, so we continued higher, until we came to Middle Sunrise Lake, which we had all to ourselves, a little over 9000 feet up.
We set up camp, built a little fire (using the existing fire ring, of course), and enjoyed the usual spartan backpacking food in these beautiful surroundings. After dinner, we cleaned up carefully, and made sure all food, trash, and other odoriferous items were repacked in a trash bag, and hung from a tree limb...
...well, easier said than done. The usual tree limb guidelines (10+ feet off the ground, supports food bag 4+ feet from the trunk) do not suit many conifers this close to treeline – all the trees in the vicinity had only small, downcurved dead branches that didn't extend 4 feet period, never mind extending far enough beyond to support the weight of our food. The meaning of something we saw at Lower Sunrise – metal cables strung between two trees at about the requisite 10' height – suddenly dawned upon us.
Oh well, too late now. After continued searching in the deepening twilight, we found a tree that seemed to meet the requirements, barely, and we secured our food. The night was cloudless and moonless, and it may just be a trick of my memory that the stars were so numerous and so bright that their light cast faint shadows.
Sometime between one and two a.m., I woke and heard footsteps, heavy, human-like. Kind of late to set up camp, I thought. Then I heard more footsteps. Then muffled growling. I roused my companion. "What do we do?" "I don't know". We were young punk graduate students from Florida; what did we know about dealing with Sierra bears? We cowered in our tent. Eventually they found the food tree, and after about ten minutes of snuffling and growling a loud SNAP! signalled the victory of Bear over Man. We listened as the bears sampled and consumed all our food (satisfied urrmmphs when they found something they liked, sneezes and growls when they found something they didn't).
Sated, they ambled off into the wild as we lay, twin lumps of adrenaline.
The next morning we surveyed the damage – tree branch torn off tree, food bag ripped open, all food gone except instant coffee. In the clearer morning light, we noticed the shredded remains of other food bags in the trees nearby. We drank our breakfast of coffee and headed back down to the car.
(We told a ranger about this later that morning, and they asked, "Why didn't you just make a loud noise, chase the bears away?" which I admit never occurred to us. Live and learn, I suppose.)
With Melchior, Mary, and angels. Papist idolatry (as Fleck has it) in our office at the Casa. Behind the rock you can see a camel hiding in shame, as he is not richly caparisoned, as a self-respecting camel of a magus ought to be. (He is also Bactrian, though I suppose it is open to debate from how far east the wise men came.) The Magi, as you might guess from Melchior's appearance, have all dressed appropriately for the occasion.
"What's the deal here?!" I hear you exclaim. "Did you keep the camera pointed towards the ground the whole time you were in Yosemite?!"
Well, no, but in retrospect we didn't really take a lot of pictures. Two factors caused this: the pathetic inadequacy of our photographic skills and equipment when faced with the stupendous scenery all around us, and the god-awfullness of much of what would have been in the foreground of those pictures. Buildings. Buses. Cars. Asphalt. People.
The previous time that I had been in Yosemite, we spent very little time on the valley floor, choosing instead to drive along the Tioga road straight to Tenaya Lake, and camp overnight among the Sunrise Lakes. As probably 99% of Yosemite visitors never leave the Valley, we saw few people and little obvious human impact, aside from the smoke of prescribed burns.
This time around, we were in that mass of humanity packed in on the valley floor. I guess it's a commonplace to bewail the impact that so many people crammed into the tiny space of a 1 x 7 mile valley, so I'll save the typing and just note that there are way too many people in Yosemite Valley in the summer. I have no idea what can be done about it; perhaps, like Zion, car travel could be restricted in certain months, and everyone forced to walk, bicycle or take the shuttle buses (very convenient, btw.). That would cut down somewhat on cars and car emissions. It would also cut down on the Park's accessibility, and make it harder for many people to visit, which could be construed as being antithetical to the Park Service's mission.
We were surprised to discover that not only are wood campfires allowed in the valley – the smoke from the fires forms a distinct smog layer in the valley as evening comes on – but that the Curry Village store will even sell you a nice bundle of firewood. I understand the appeal of a nice fire in the wilderness, but still...
In some ways, the valley is an advantage – it keeps almost all human crowding in one place, greatly lessening any impact on the rest of the park. Being selfish, though, it's unfortunate that one of my primary impressions of Yosemite from this summer is: asphalt.
Enough of my whinging. The picture is of the Merced near Happy Isles, where we decided it was getting too late to continue hiking towards Vernal Falls. The glow upon the water is the reflection of sunset from the lower flanks of Half Dome.
First, we went for a hike to Lower Yosemite Falls.
After that, we missed a turnoff and ended up hiking a bit further than we intended. Eventually, we wandered back into Yosemite Village, stopping at the Visitor Center and the Ansel Adams Gallery, and looked for some lunch, which we found at some snack shop or other. 
After lunch, we hopped on the shuttle bus and rode a few stops to Yosemite Lodge, then walked across the valley, to a bridge crossing the Merced, a beautiful little spot with sandy beaches, bright clear water, and many, many people. Moira just wanted a place to relax and read, and this was just too crowded, so we walked on to the Sentinel Beach picnic area, where we left Moira under the tall, creaking pines and firs. The rest of us went for a hike partway up the Four Mile Trail, which climbs up from the valley floor to Glacier point. As the trail climbs up, you start to be able to see glimpses of the valley walls between gaps in the pine - oak canopy.
Here's the upper southeast face of El Capitan seen through the leaves.
A few minutes before we reached our agreed-upon turn around point, I heard a sound. Hmm, that's a familiar sound, I thought, ambling forwards. What is it?
"Hey, Dad, a rattlesnake!" Whoops! Yes, it is a rattlesnake[1], about 3 or 4 feet long. It is coiled in a sunny spot on the trail about five feet from my advancing, sneaker-shod feet. We stopped, and the snake beat a slow, rattly retreat. 
It eventually stopped a dozen or so feet farther up the trail. This seemed like a good time to turn around.
The incident was disturbing to me because it meant that I'd lost my rattlesnake reflexes – the act-before-thinking involuntary backwards jump that had served me in good stead through a decade of field work, a reaction that used to be set off just by hearing that sound. Without the verbal warning, I probably would have been within a foot or two before it dawned on me that hey, that snake's telling me to back off, which could have added much more excitement to the Park visit than we had planned for[2].
[1]As far as I know, there's only one rattler species found in the park, the Northern Pacific Rattlesnake (either Crotalus oreganus oreganus or Crotalus viridis oreganus; taxonomists, as ever, unable to agree).
[2]If either of these sites say they have links to extremely graphic photos, believe them.
This is nauseating. The only people who should be allowed to use the word "mommy" are small children addressing their own mothers. I cannot fathom why any adult would feel the need to refer to grown women, in any context, as "mommies", and grown women who self-refer in that fashion are stranger still.
The usage seems to have increased with time. "Mommy track" was an irritating enough phrase. After that I recall seeing things like post-natal exercise classes, where women could bring their infants along, advertised as "Mommy and Me!" or the like. (What, weeks-old infants can read and alert their mothers to this convenient gym service?) Then of course we get "mommy blogging", and the egregious "mommy brain" reminded me of an excellent rant on that subject from last summer. Sometimes I gotta wonder if the devotees of this cutsie-pootery subconciously believe maternity is shameful, and that to atone for having entered into this abased state of being they must abjure all claim to the dignities and authority proper to adulthood.
Eventually, the Asian couple finishes the transaction, and I step up. Papers are exchanged, and I am issued a key and a little map of the Village. Holy cow, there are a lot of tents here.
I made my way back to the car, and drove to the appropriate parking lot. My goodness, a lot of cars here. We found a space in the bumpy gravel large enough for our car, and began maximal bear cleansing procedures[1]. Man, this parking lot is pretty full. We haul sleeping bags and luggage to the tent, and all food to the assigned bear locker. (I should note here that thanks to Moira's foresight, we actually have a cooler that will fit properly within the confines of the bear locker.) We settle in and examine our surroundings.
We are in a rigid tent, the oiled canvas stretched over a wooden frame, with a wooden screen door that locks with a padlock. The whole thing is raised up about 2 feet off the ground, but is only about eight inches away from its neighbor tents. We are second to the end of a long row of canvas, and there are tents behind us, and tents in front of us, row upon row. The effect is that of a Civil War-era army encampment. The canvas walls offer very little privacy; everything that happens in the neighboring tents sounds like it's happening at our very elbows, as, in fact, it is.
"If you tell me you made these reservations knowing that the conditions were like this, I'll divorce you." Moira says.
"Oh, no, of course not."
The group bathrooms are about as rustic, and in less good repair, than those at Sequoia. We lock our tent, and head out in search of a starry night sky, wandering across the parking lot and toward Stoneman Bridge. We sit on the bridge, enjoying moments of darkness frequently interspersed with the glare of oncoming headlights. The headlights, aside from destroying our night vision, also illuminate a thick layer of wood smoke that permeates this end of the valley. Between the two , it's pretty obvious we aren't going to see a lot of stars around here... and I don't want to give up our primo parking space to go wandering off elsewhere in the park. So we content our selves with listening to the river under the bridge, and eventually head back to the tent, to the soft, uncomfortable beds, to listen to people around us talk well into the night. One more night of this.
[1]Anti-bear tempting policy.
As sunset approached, the road rose into the mountains. Once again, we were entering a park a long way from where we were to end up, but at least we knew it in advance this time. Past Wawona. Lots of people just driving like idiots, mashing the accelerator down hills and into turns, then stomping the brakes. Ah, grasshopper, you will never achieve the zen of mountain driving that way. Past Chinquapin. We're getting close... will we make it into the valley before sunset?
...
No, we won't. The sun dipped behind the ridges to the west. But now the road crests and curves eastward, entering the valley. "View coming up!", I announce to the air. The light, alas, is not conducive to pictures, especially those taken through the windshield of a car that doesn't have time to stop. And we don't; after last night, we want to make sure we are settled in for the night as soon as possible. But my warning was well-timed; seconds later, The View appeared. (No, that's not our picture. And it was later in the day when we arrived, post-sunset, the light fading quickly. But I had to come up with some picture for it. While I've got this parenthetical note going, I'll apologize here and now for the pictures we've got of Yosemite, which are ... okay, but not numerous and frankly not that outstanding.)
We continue into the valley, while I try to restrain my general tendency to sightsee while driving. Still – how can you not sightsee? In my whole life, I can only remember three times when a landscape has left me not only physically speechless, but so mentally overwhelmed that I couldn't even form coherent thoughts on first view – when I was a teenager and visited Jackson Hole for the first time; when I was in my twenties and first visited Yosemite; and again a decade later when we made an all-too-brief and thoroughly rain-soaked tourist pilgrimage to Milford Sound. Especially in the latter cases, the only thought my brain could come up with was: That can't be real. The earth has done an impossible thing here.
But maybe that's just me. Years ago, a colleague of mine told me about taking his kids to Zion and the Grand Canyon. "Oh, great, Dad. More big rocks." And then there was the original big-rocks-big-deal guy:
“What,” says he, “is Yosemite but a cañon – a lot of rocks – a hole in the ground – a place dangerous about falling into – a d—d good place to keep away from.” “But think of the waterfalls, Billy – just think of that big stream we crossed the other day, falling half a mile through the air – think of that, and the sound it makes. You can hear it now like the roar of the sea.” Thus I pressed Yosemite upon him like a missionary offering the gospel, but he would have none of it. “I should be afraid to look over so high a wall,” he said. “It would make my head swim. There is nothing worth seeing anywhere, only rocks, and I see plenty of them here. Tourists that spend their money to see rocks and falls are fools, that’s all. You can’t humbug me. I’ve been in this country too long for that.”
Finally, in deep twilight, we stop at Curry Village, deep in the valley, directly beneath Glacier Point, and Half Dome hanging in the air to the east. But no time for all that now, gotta find our tent...
Mr. Sullivan:
...an economically clueless populace has elected a congress full of budding Bolivarians like James Webb.
[Most British people] ought to be getting lobotomies - all on the NHS of course - rather than be allowed to carry on voting.
...of course, I just realized Mr. Sullivan's comment came last evening, rather than this morning, which is when I first saw it, destroying the whole rationale for this post... but I've typed it, I won't untype it. And now you can't unread it either. So there.
(I post jokingly, but it really is an outrage!)
