Yosemite

Short story:

Four days in Yosemite Valley “backcountry."

Dave, Andrew, and James climbed Half Dome from the steep side (Northwest Regular route).

I climbed Half Dome from the still pretty darn steep side (cables route) on a four day solo backpacking trip.

Long story...

We showed up in the Valley around 2:00 p.m. on a Saturday in June. WORST TIME TO VISIT THE VALLEY – the place was crawling with tour buses and hordes of people. If Dave weren't meeting James and Andrew, I would have turned around and driven us right back out! Horrible first impression. 

My impression of the Valley did not improve, as we had multiple extremely rude encounters with tourons, plus had some of our stuff stolen (including my driver's license and anniversary present).  So, screw you Yosemite Valley, I'm glad you're off my life list and I never have to return.

Enough complaining!  

Getting a permit for Half Dome as part of a backcountry trip was easy. I chose the Pohono Trail – Panorama Trail, from the Valley entrance to the backcountry camp at the foot of Half Dome (Little Yosemite Valley).

I packed my backpack, and the guys laid out a mega-spread of climbing gear.

big wall rack

my complete gear spread, four days solo (unsupported)

Day 1

Next morning, Dave dropped me off at the Wawona Tunnel trailhead. We said “Happy Anniversary, see you in four days, love you!” and I started walking.

valley view from wawona tunnel trailhead: el cap on left, half dome distant. reminds me of a painting.

 The Pohono Trail is a nice walk through the woods. Nothing too exciting.

the pohono trail

There are a few viewpoints along the trail, each better than the last.

me and el cap

I made my one mistake of the trip, not paying attention to my water sources. Ran out of water mid-day and wanted to lunch at Dewey Point. I dropped my pack and ran ½ mile down the trail to a fetid pool. Score one for the Saywer Mini – filtered it perfectly!

who likes mosquito wings in their water?

I arrived at Bridalveil Creek around 3:00 p.m. after a short 8ish mile day. Camping isn't allowed within 4 miles of Valley development, so I couldn't go farther. I hung my hammock and moped around camp. I was super sad and lonely when I couldn't finish my dinner and didn't have Dave to eat my leftovers, but that was the only moment of the solo that I struggled with being alone.

sad, lonely anniversary dinner leftovers

Day 2

Big scenery day!

Hiked to Taft Point.

taft point

Then on to Glacier Point. Holy crowds – and what a great view of Half Dome!

actually from sentinel dome, but who's keeping track...

I chatted with an older man with binoculars. He mentioned that he was on the 14^th ascent of NWRR and that he had seen 5 climbers total on the route. I hadn't looked at a topo before the trip, so I had no idea where to find Dave on the wall, but it was cool to know he was out there.

half dome, vernal falls, and nevada falls panorama

I left the Pohono Trail at Glacier Point and started on the Panorama Trail, which gives an awesome view of the profile of Half Dome.

half dome profile view

At Illilouette Falls, I met a family that needed map assistance and water. Happy to help!

The climb from Illoquette Falls up to Nevada Falls wasn't that bad, especially after the climb the first day.

top of nevada falls

I had a trail companion on the walk from Nevada Falls to LYV.

trail pal

 And after an enjoyable 13.5 mile day, I had the best backpacking dinner – pasta alfredo. Delicious!

three thumbs up!!

Day 3

Knowing that the guys wouldn't summit until later in the day, I slept in and took my time getting ready in the morning. To kill more time, I breathed only through my nose on the walk from LYV to the foot of the subdome. Still got there at 11:00 a.m. Darn.

I made friends with the ranger checking permits.

young 'un. actually a college student.

Next up: the subdome. Everyone knows about the famous cables, but not everyone knows that you need to climb up steep, sloping, gravel-covered stairs and steep slabs over the subdome. There is definitely exposure (especially on the way down), and I saw folks turn around on or just after the subdome. I thanked Gothics, Algonquin, and every other Adirondack slab I've climbed!

this part was interesting, too

At the top of the subdome, I was counting on finding a glove pile – no dice. Some good Samaritan cleaned it up, I guess. I found 3 (conveniently, one each) for the guys, and a girl who turned around after the subdome gave me hers. Thanks!

cables from the top of the subdome

The cables were steep. Often, someone will describe a trail as steep, and then when I climb it, yeah it's steep but it's not STEEP. This trail is STEEP. Plus that spicy sence of exposure you get from rock climbing. I'm sure that someone could walk up without touching the cables, but I found myself hauling myself up hand-over-hand. More of an upper body workout than I was expecting!

a taste of exposure

(Random aside: on the way up, I stopped to encourage and calm two different young woman, one going up the subdome, the other bailing on the cables. Both were being “helped” by their young, male partners. Having been in that situation many times myself, I found that I was able to give more effective “help” than the companions. I should really write about partner dynamics in the backcountry one of these days...)

smiling, in between gasps for air. it was STEEP.

At the top, I had lunch and enjoyed the views.

view from the top

Then I got a disturbing text message from Dave. 

Received at noon, it said that they were at Big Sandy (an iconic bivy ledge at the top of pitch 17 of 23), moving slowish, and expecting to top out between 5 and 10 p.m. 

At Big Sandy at noon? They were supposed to sleep at Big Sandy the night before! Seemed that they were seriously behind schedule, with the hardest aid climbing still ahead of them. There was no way they could cover the last 6 pitches in 5 hours if they had gotten to Big Sandy 16 hours late. I wondered if they were getting dehydrated.

I couldn't wait at the top that long, so I joined a group to descent the cables. My mind was nervous for Dave, and I felt that the presence of other people would keep me focused.

walking the cables

At the bottom of the subdome, I was sad to leave Dave on the mountain. I had imagined giving him a big hug and a bottle of water when he topped out. Now I had no idea when I would see him next.

Back at camp, I knew that sitting alone in my hammock, imagining the worst, was not productive. I had tea with a French guy, then joined the communal campfire with my rice & beans dinner.

my camp

As the last of the daylight faded from the sky, I looked toward Half Dome and saw headlamps on the cables. Headlamps on the cables! It must be Dave and party! I flashed my headlamp – one two, one two. From two miles away, the headlamp flashed back – one two, one two. I watched them descend to the col between the cables and the subdome.

Then they disappeared. I watched for a while longer, growing more concerned that they hadn't found the right descent route and had slipped into the abyss. Again, that thinking isn't productive, so I forced myself to my hammock and to sleep.

Plan for the next day:

• Wake up early. Search camp. If they are not in camp,
• Fill up as much water as I can carry, bring extra food, start hiking toward Half Dome again. If they are not along the trail,
• Wait at the base of the subdome until mid-morning. If they don't descend from the base of the subdome by mid-morning,
• Ask ranger at base of subdome to contact YOSAR (search and rescue).

Day 4

Up early. Guys are not in camp.

first morning sunlight. gahhh it's cold.

Start walking. Reach first trail junction. Asked a few descending hikers whether they have seen any rock climbers. Nope.

About 1.5 miles up the trail, there they are. Whew! I was so happy, annoyed, and relieved all at once!

cool, they're not dead, i can stop worrying

Turns out that the text message had actually been sent around 9:00 a.m. when they were *leaving* Big Sandy. While everything took longer than expected (they didn't get to their bivy until 5:00 a.m. and slept until only 7:00 a.m.), they did follow their climbing plan.

We relaxed at the Merced River outside of LYV.

merced river

We relaxed again at Nevada Falls.

nevada falls

And again at Vernal Falls. The guys were REALLY tired.

vernal falls

And then we were done!

After the Trip

First, you should really go read Dave's account of his time on the wall at http://nomaddave.blogspot.com/. Total crazy pants.

walking the thank god ledge 1800' off the deck (photo credit james)

Over the next two days, we took a lot of river baths (Valley = hot).

bath time

Climbed a few climbs.

bishop's terrace - 5.8 hand crack

Stayed at Camp 4.

camp 4 - midnight lightning

I really enjoyed my solo experience. It wasn't that hard, and next time, I would like to try something more challenging.

I'm glad I visited the Valley and can check that life list box, but I wouldn't return. It's like a shopping mall on Black Friday. People were surprisingly rude and rushed. The wildlife is sadly addicted to human food. It's not what I enjoy in a wilderness experience.

Trip Beta for Yosemite

(1) Only a certain number of permits are available for each trailhead per day to limit the number of hikers along popular routes. Some trailhead will always have space though (might not be the one you want, but you can always find some trip).

(2) You can get a Half Dome permit if your backpacking route “reasonably includes Half Dome.” LYV will fill up, but if you can do a >2 day trip, this is the (physically) easiest, most relaxed way to climb it.

(3) Last-minute, legal camping in the Valley is impossible with two exceptions:

(a) Backpacker's camp the night after a backcountry trip. Wilderness permit required. This option is not advertised, I think because the park doesn't want people requesting permits just to have a place to camp in the Valley. The camp is located in the North Pines campground. Follow the loop around and you'll see a 15 minute parking zone for unloading; follow the little trail over a bridge and you're there. No potable water (creek nearby), but there are vault toilets.

(b) Camp 4. Get up early and stand in line at the camp kiosk. If it's a weekend, we're talking 4:00 a.m. If it's a weekday... well, we were there a 6:15 a.m. on a Thursday and we were 40^th in line (there were 55 spaces, so we got in, but not everyone did). Ranger hands out permits starting around 8:30 a.m.

(4) You really want gloves for the cables. Really. You can do it without gloves, but it's way more comfortable and secure. Gardening or baseball gloves will work fine. Don't count on finding a glove pile; there wasn't one when I was there.

(5) Go down the cables backwards. It's way easier.

(6) Think twice about clipping in to the cables.  My reasoning: it's psychological safety but probably not too much physical safety. During a fall, you'd hit the metal post, which simply sits in a hole in the rock. The post would probably pop, and you'd continue to fall, taking out other climbers in your path, many of whom are not tied in. Bottom line: please don't slip.

(6) In retrospect, I really should have done the Cathedral Lakes trail to be up in the mountains and to have different views each day. I avoided it because I thought it would be crowded, but the Panorama Trail/ LYV was so crowded anyway. And it's basically the same view up the valley, changing only a little as you progress.  Oh well.

(7)  Overall, try to spend as little time in the Valley as possible. We didn't visit Tuolumne or Hetch Hetchy, and I think I would have a higher opinion of Yosemite if we had.

Escape from Azerbaijan

Davo and I always buy the cheapest airline ticket. My only requirement is to go from City A to City B. Long layovers (catch up on my email), no in-flight service (bring my own snacks), and being shoehorned into a hobbit-sized seat (go to sleep) don't bother me.

A direct flight from Istanbul to Tel Aviv in the third week of December would have cost something like $400. For the bargain price of $230, however, Azerbaijan Airlines offered a ticket with a connection in Baku, Azerbaijan.

I'll give you a moment to enter Azerbaijan into Google Maps.

This is how our journey should have gone: depart Istanbul at 10:00 p.m.; arrive in Baku around 3:00 a.m.; go through the transit desk to pick up our boarding passes; catch a few hours of sleep in the terminal; depart Baku at 9:00 a.m. Easy.

The journey started off ominously when we almost weren't permitted to board the flight in Istanbul, because we didn't have an Azerbaijani visa or a letter of invitation. At Atatürk International Airport in Istanbul, a pasty man with a tight necktie and a thick accent poured through a volume that resembled the phone book, newsprint pages covered in tiny print. The Official Rules of Airplanes, Etc. He squinted at one page for a while, then, satisfied that he wouldn't be thrown into the gulag for allowing us into his country, grunted and jerked his head toward the check-in desk.

The flight to Baku was uneventful. We disembark the plane at Heydar Aliyev International Airport, and right there in the hallway is a sign for “Transit Desk.”

There's no one there.

My Turkish Hamam Experience

Subtitled:

Scrub-a-Dub-Dub, It's Time for the Tub

or

How I Came to Know Bubby's Boobs

or even

Grey, Tarry Turd Caterpillars

Back in the day, before most Turks had nice bathrooms in their houses, everyone went to a hamam, or community bathhouse, to clean up, relax, socialize, and gossip. One of the things I wanted to do most in Turkey was to visit a hamam. Why? I've gotten quite dirty from traveling for a year. Like, really dirty. And why not? (For your own sake, note that this sentiment most often leads to humiliating and/or grand adventures.)

There are a few tourist-oriented hamam that charge waif-like French visitors 75 Euro. But I (stupidly?) wanted the real deal: the "local experience" with "local women" at the "local price." Our couchsurf host pointed us to Çenili Hamam on the Asian side of the Bosphorus.

that's it

Dave and I found the place without too much difficulty and planned to meet up in 90 minutes. The ladies' side was clearly labeled "bayan." Deep breath. Let the adventure begin.

Adventures with Old Maps, Buses, and Trusting Strangers

Maybe we shouldn't carry a guidebook that's 10 years old.

Well, we don't usually carry a guidebook at all.  Our experiment with Lonely Planet in Indonesia was a disaster--so much energy wasted on making sure we saw each and every temple (really, after two or three, they all look the same) and getting frustrated when the quoted prices were totally different than LP's estimates (and they always were).  Otherwise, we've been mostly guidebook-free, relying on internet research and asking around to make our way.

But then I ran across an old Turkey guidebook in Nepal for only 200-something rupees, and I couldn't pass it up.  I mean, Abraham's birthplace has been, well, Abraham's birthplace for the past 6,000 years, so certainly I could use the guidebook to research interesting cities and sites.

According to the map in the guidebook, Şanlıurfa's old city center is only 1 km east of the otogar, or bus terminal.  We stood facing east, looking down the road.  Not much in that direction, just dusty beige hills in the distance.  Hmm.

I popped my head into a bus and asked, "Şanlıurfa?"  The driver pointed to the other side of the road, the side that heads west.  Not east.  Hmm.

A man stopped his car on the other side of the road.  I think he was asking where we were going, and we said, "Şanlıurfa!"  He waved us to the other side of the road.  I looked at Dave, puzzled, then looked at the map again.  Yep, east is still on the right side of the page.  We want to go east.  Hmm.

The man flagged down a west-bound bus for us.  The driver actually exited the bus and waved at us.  Hmm...

I hesitated.

The man charged across the street like a testosterone-pumped bull charging a red cape.

Finding Mind Happiness in Siem Reap

I came to Siem Reap to avoid Bangkok and to see Angkor Archaeological Park, which can be done in a day or two. Somehow, I ended up staying close to two weeks.  Those nice plans to get into northern Thailand, where there's hiking and hills, went right out the window.  Oh well.  I like this corner of Cambodia.

Impressions of Siem Reap...  well, a few decades ago, the insane dictator Pol Pot was extremely effective in eliminating a large chunk of the population, something like a third of the population, including anyone literate.  The country has only been stable for the last twenty years.  Tourism is new--maybe ten years.  Perhaps due to this, there is noticeable desire here to have a good, stable life, and it's much stronger and more easily acknowledged here than anywhere else I've traveled.

At least two Cambodians have mentioned that they have problems sleeping at night due to the stress of their business, making money, providing for their families, and worrying about the future.  And this comes up in small talk!

The entire young generation desperately wants to learn English.  English proficiency is seen as an absolute prerequisite for securing a job, at least in the Siem Reap area.

One day, Dave and I wandered into a random temple compound outside the main tourist district.  A young monk waved us over, sat us down, and proceeded to spend the next 45 minutes talking to us about a project he's starting.  As a monk in the service of the community, Chea Yorn teaches English six days a week in both Siem Reap and the countryside.  Amazingly, he manages to do this with only an intermediate grasp of the language himself!  In his opinion, English is so crucial to the success of the youth in Cambodia that they simply must learn it, even if he has to teach every damn teenager himself.

In addition, Chea has hatched a plan to bring more income into rural areas by selecting two families to participate in a fruit and vegetable growing project.  Outside the rainy season, these rice-growing villages have no source of income.  If a few families could be taught how to grow fruits and vegetables, they could have income all year round, plus show other families these techniques.  The fruit trees could provide shade and fresh air in the hot, dusty villages.  He also has ideas for irrigation improvements.

Dave and I have visited Chea's evening classes a few times to help model native English pronunciations.  We're not in Siem Reap long enough to take over teaching any classes, but it seems our attendance and participation keeps the students engaged.  Every little bit helps, or so I tell myself.  I've noticed that other random people show up to watch the spectacle, so at least we're entertaining someone!  This temple isn't in the nicest part of town, but Dave and I walk back to our village after dark, and we feel safer walking out of the temple here than we'd feel in many parts of the United States.

The classes take place under the deck of the small building where Chea lives with three other monks and a few temple boys.  There's a dirty whiteboard, one marker, and a bunch of young Cambodians, ages 16 to 25.  One young woman adds the consonant "ssss" to the end of every word, which I find endearing.

Besides teaching English with only an intermediate grasp of the language himself, and hatching mad awesome plans to save Cambodia one family at a time, Chea gets up at 4 a.m, eats one meal a day, and participates in temple life as a monk.  He's 28 and has been a monk since age 15. 

But he's still part of this world.  An Australian gave him a laptop and a digital camera.  He's very quick to show off pictures of his students.  And, like everyone in my generation, he's on Facebook.

He was thinking of going to university, if he could get the money, or maybe just getting a job.  In this part of the world, it's common to become a monk for a few years in the teens or 20s to further education and to become a better member of society.  But maybe Chea will remain a monk.

In his words, "helping other people and we don't need to get anything back that is mind happiness. doing any good deed for each others it will make our mind peaceful. making our mind pure."

You said it, Chea.  This is 21st century Buddhism, and the answer to the questions of the retreat experience.

Jakarta: Introduction to Pretending to be Indonesian, and Other Stories

When I think of Jakarta, I think of motor vehicles.

I think of mini-buses built in the 60's belching greasy, tar-colored smoke while men hang out the doorways, rapid-fire yelling the destination in auctioneer's staccato. Black SUVs with tinted windows sealed off from the airborne grime outside tailgate through the traffic at a snail's pace. Swarms of motorbikes weave around the larger vehicles, flowing through the street like water down a river. They buzz buzz buzz, a constant background drone eerily similar to the whine of a wasp's nest, rising to a harsh mechanical roar as they take off en mass from a cluster in front of a traffic light. Smog hangs over the city, clearly visible from the top of the National Monument, 150 meters above the traffic.

When I think of Jakarta, I think of heat.

Even supposedly air conditioned spaces are only marginally cooler than the smothering heat outside—I guess Indonesians get cold easily. As I write this, I'm sitting in an "air-conditioned" train car. A few rows ahead of me, an Indonesian man is wearing a wool beanie. My pant legs are rolled up and sweat is pooling in the small of my back. This morning, when Rheden left for work, he was wearing FIVE LAYERS to protect himself against the "morning chill." My glasses fogged up as we took our goodbye picture. Go figure.

When I think of Jakarta, I think of Rheden and his family. Dave and I researched couchsurfing/ homestay hosts in Jakarta separately, and out of the several hundred willing hosts, we both picked Rheden independently. He's in his mid-twenties, a teacher who describes himself as friendly with a mother who loves to cook. On our first night in Jakarta, he met us in front of Rumah Sawit Fatmawati on his motorbike. He looked at us—we are both bigger than him—and our backpacks—which are nearly bigger than him—and he laughed. Rheden laughs a lot. (We bottomed out the bike more than once. I didn't know that was possible on a motorbike.)

Rheden lives in South Jakarta, in a neighborhood of clay roofing tiles, children, skinny feral cats, and roving poultry. He lives in his parents' house, and his sister's house is 15 meters away, but the line between "his house" and "her house" is fuzzy and probably irrelevant. The blocks of houses are reached via small alleys punctuated by random ramps and stairs. The houses are extremely small by American standards. There is a living room, then a bedroom, then a kitchen next to a bathroom, where there is a water spigot and a non-flush squat toilet. The atmosphere is warm in both temperature and residents' temperment.

Back to the night we met Rheden. Our education in how to be Indonesian started right away with demonstration baskets of roots, leaves, and spices used in traditional Indonesian cooking, most of which were completely new to me. I carefully noted their names in bahasa indonesia on my notepad. We cooked fried rice and fell asleep on the floor of the living room.

Rheden wakes at 4:30 a.m. to prepare for morning prayers. Unaccustomed to the amplified wailing coming from the mosque, so did I. Around 6:00 a.m, he went to work, while I went back to sleep. Intent on ensuring that we'd have a complete instruction, however, he left an itinerary with his mother and sister for our day. We were going to visit a traditional market and a tofu factory, but our late start meant we walked at Indonesian pace (about 1 km/hr) to pick up Aldi, his 6 year old nephew, from school.

We stood sweating in the sun in the school courtyard while kids circled us, whispering. One bold boy shouted, "WAT IZ YOR NAME?" which touched off a chorus of giggles. In bahasa I responded, "Saya Nee-coe," and the laughs got louder. Dave pulled out a camera and asked, "Foto?" and the riot of jumping, squealing, and screaming began.

Of course, this level of interaction led to an impromptu bahasa and English jam session in the courtyard, reviewing the terms for "tree" and "shade" while sweat soaked through my shirt. And this, of course, led to us being ushered into a class of forty 9 year olds and, via gestures, encouraged to talk to the children. Even if I can't speak bahasa, I can entertain. So we continued our bahasa and English jam session, reviewing words from shoe (sapatu) to house (rumah). After an awkward, somewhat formal meeting with the headmaster—was she secretly annoyed that we interrupted her classes?—we were released into the steamy street.

That afternoon, we went to the city center to visit the National Monument (not worth the queue to go to the top) and the Istiqlal Mosque (worth every precious moment inside and around).

We took pictures with at least half a dozen random Indonesians, who apparently enjoy photos in which they appear with a white person.

We went out to dinner with Rheden and a friend, Cha Cha, to sample still more local foods and stopped by a fruit market to pick up local fruits for a tasting party. And, with Rheden and Cha Cha's help, we secured train tickets to Jyogjakarta. We fell asleep with a tired little Aldi in bed next to us.

Somehow, Rheden survives on a few hours sleep per night, but we slept in and planned on relaxing for the day. We spent the morning studying bahasa with the help of Dian, his sister, and "Bu," Mother. Dian and one neighbor speak a little English, but we're so far off the beaten path here that we were told that most of the children in the school have never seen a Caucasian in person before. The more bahasa we know, the better. After studying, Dian and Bu prepared us yet another delicious traditional lunch. Dave played badminton with Aldi in the street, but the shuttlecocks kept getting stuck on the roof.

We walked at Indonesian speed to the market with some of the neighbor women. It was like being on parade—everyone stares, a few people shout something in garbled English. Dave is the tallest person in the street, and I'm second tallest. At the market, we see a package of shuttlecocks for sale, and we conspire to return to purchase them as a gift for Aldi. Reverse the slow crawl to the house, a lame excuse about purchasing snacks for the journey tomorrow, and we're back into the street (although this time the walk takes 8 minutes instead of 30).

Being here is like being a child all over again. I'm learning to speak, what to say, how to say it, when to say it. I'm learning how to cross the street here (when in doubt, find a local and follow him). I'm learning how to eat like an Indonesian (mix everything together; enjoy chilis). I'm even learning how to go to the bathroom properly (no toilet paper here, nor a toilet seat). My mission to the market for badminton shuttlecocks was the final exam: could I find my way through the alleys, cross the busy street, correctly purchase and pay for the shuttlecocks, and beat the neighborhood gossip back to Aldi so his present would be a surprise?

I'm proud to report that our mission was a success, and Aldi loved loved loved his present.

On our final night in Jakarta, we enjoyed our fruit tasting party with two other French couchsurfers. I finally tried durian, the king of the fruits, with its reputation for being smelly but delicious. (It was somewhat smelly and somewhat delicious, but didn't live up to its reputation). My favorite was rambutan, which looks like something out of a sci-fi movie.

We left Rheden, Bu, Pak, Dian, Alex, Aldi, and Mutiara in South Jakarta this morning. Rheden and his family are amazing: I've never experienced hospitality and generosity like theirs. I think it will take a while to process and appreciate the experience fully, but I think it was the absolute best introduction to pretending to be Indonesian.

Photo journal: