Salcedo-Chourré - Historic Yosemite National Park: the stories behind one of Americas great treasures

Guilford, Connecticut

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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Salcedo-Chourre, Tracy, author.

Title: Historic Yosemite National Park : the stories behind one of Americas

great treasures / Tracy Salcedo.

Description: Guilford, Connecticut : Lyons Press, [2016] | Includes

bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016003161 (print) | LCCN 2016003680 (ebook) | ISBN

9781493018116 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781493018123 (e-book)

Subjects: LCSH: Yosemite National Park (Calif.)History. | Yosemite National

Park (Calif.)Biography.

Classification: LCC F868.Y6 S193 2016 (print) | LCC F868.Y6 (ebook) | DDC

979.4/47dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016003161

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

For the TP Princesses, who know best why dollops of wilderness mean so much to me

Contents

Authors Note

On the Brilliance of Faraway Eyes

I cant claim the clich that Yosemite changed my life. My love of exploring wild places was determined long before I walked in the park.

But Yosemite helped. My first backpacking trip was a two-week tour of the parks backcountry with a Sierra Studies class from my high school in 1978. I wish now Id paid closer attention, so I could tell you our route. I know we started in Tuolumne Meadows; I remember fumbling the word around in my mouth when I saw it on the sign. We climbed Cathedral Peak; it was my first true mountaintop, and I saw the curve of the Earth for the first time from the summit. The rest is a magical blur of walking and looking, walking and looking, day after day, until I felt as shiny and solid as the rock underfoot, and my breath felt easy no matter the slope, and the ground beneath my thin sleeping pad was actually comfortable.

That trip helped anchor a passion for walking in wilderness that has never ebbed. Not that I let anyone know at the time; I was a teenager, after all. The friends who convinced me to take the class were sure I hated it. The food was nasty. That first meal from a foil pouch I dubbed hairy chicken and maggots, and Ive never gotten over the crime that is dehydrated eggs. I won an award for the massive blisters that developed on my heels; even the kids on the bus home were aghast when I finally took off my boots in public. It takes a good amount of gross to make a teenage boy cringe.

But if anything speaks to the power of Yosemite, its those blisters. I had to hide them from the instructors, as wed been warned that if we got hurt, wed be sent home, and blisters counted, since they could get infected. I didnt want to leave, so I powered through. Discovering the best way to avoid the pain was to not stop walking, I hiked from camp to camp without break. The poor teacher who had to keep tabs on me only got me to stop when he brought out the map and compass. I dont remember the names of the pass we stood on or the steep-walled valley we gazed down, but I remember it clicking: lines on paper to peaks on a ridgeline, this one with a sheer wall on the north side, this one a dome. Now I was free to wander.

I also dont remember the name of the trail we took down into Yosemite Valley, but I do remember the massive camps on the floor. This was a time when Yosemite struggled with crowds packed in campgrounds and in long lines of traffic on the loop road. Trailers were parked side by side between the trees, a subdivision complete with clotheslines and televisions with rabbit-ear antennas. As elated as Id been on the mountaintop, I deflated among the Airstreams.

I understand now that I came out of Yosemites backcountry with faraway eyes. Ive come to know them well over the years, having seen them in friends and family, and recognizing them in myself. Faraway eyes come with time spent scanning horizons for days on end, whether on a boat or on foot or even looking out a car window on a long road trip. What has struck me, as Ive worked on Historic Yosemite National Park , is how often I see faraway eyes in the pictures of Yosemites heroes. Especially when they gaze past the camera, you get the impression they are looking way over, way up, beyond. In those days, I imagine, it couldnt be helped. There were no rabbit-ear TVs or cell phones to pull you in. It was all up and out.

The knowledge of faraway eyes informs all the essays in this book. To understand how Yosemite came to be what it isthe flagship, the crown jewel, the mountain temple of Americas national park systeman understanding of how the place affects the people whove visited, and especially the people whove lived it, is prerequisite. You cant truly be in Yosemite without losing yourself in distance and time.

Of the people who lived here, I am in awe of their fortitude, their bravery, and their luck. They created homes in a wild place so monumental its impossible not to look faraway all the time. Somehow, still, they managed to bake bread, split rails, break trails, raise crops, and keep the books for their camps and hotels. All the while the mountains embraced them, the waterfalls formed the backbeat, the meadows bloomed, and the river flowed. Drudgery amid such beauty requires a special kind of discipline.

On that first backpacking trip, having seen all that makes Yosemite superlative, I also saw the parks dark side. Ill admit, Ive avoided the Valley in summertime ever since. I cant take the crowds. I cant take the noise, the push, and these days, the focus on the device over the minds eye as the receptacle of memory. You cant experience faraway when your eyes are fixed on the screen at arms length.

I close my eyes and I see the full moon square in the notch on Half Domes sheer face, the rainbow at the base of Vernal Fall, the glittering slide of Staircase Falls, the heart-clenching exposure from Columbia Rock, the endless views from the top of Sentinel Dome. Even with lids shut, I can enjoy the blessings of Yosemites first gift to methe gift of faraway eyes.

The sun catches on clouds breaking over Sentinel Rock. photo: Tracy Salcedo