Mules, mountains, and a mystery solved

“Bells. Chiming. Church bells? Whaaaat? Though the haze of sleep I opened one bleary eye, wiggled my head out of my sleeping bag cocoon and looked around. There appeared to be a large blob standing a few meters away. Cow bells? I searched around for my glasses to get a better view. Horse. Correction, horses. And in the meadow, a wrangler clanging a bell. It was Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. Or was I dreaming? I glanced at my watch. 6am. Ugh. Where the hell had this lot materialised from at this time of the morning? I clambered out and went over to say ‘Howdy pardner’, but by the time I stumbled over there, the wrangler was collecting up his train and moseying on down the trail.” 

-Curiouser and Curiouser: An Odd Day on the Trail. 9-14-2014. https://dallassierraadventure.blogspot.com/2014/09/curiouser-and-curiouseran-odd-day-on.html

This episode from a solo trip three years ago had always puzzled me. Why were there bells? Why were there horses?  As Tenaya, Tara and I set off in the early morning for the Rock Creek Pack Station (http://www.rockcreekpackstation.com/), I never suspected that the answer would be found amidst the peaks of the Hilton Lakes drainage, the destination for our first pack trip.

The idea from trip stemmed equally from a desire to take my daughters into the wilderness, and from their reluctance, nay, outright refusal, to continue our long-standing tradition of family backpacking. That would involve walking. Why not consider getting into the wilderness by other means? The girls had enjoyed shorter horse trail rides (I had tolerated them; Alistair had completely refused to sit in a saddle), and were totally won over by the idea of a longer trip, especially the prospect of fabulous meals as opposed to the usual minimalist backpacking fare. And did I mention not having to walk? It was all enough to make up for the early start.

.

At 7 AM  the Rock Creek Pack Station was a hive of activity. Guests were arriving by the car load, clad in outdoorsy clothes and unloading mountains of gear.  A manure scent clung to the still air. What first appeared to be a melee in a large, dusty corral resolved into packers in cowboy attire loading mules and saddling horses. Their obvious competence intimidated me; it was far beyond my realm of experience and I felt utterly inadequate. The idea of heading into the backcountry totally reliant on others’ expertise was disconcerting.

Packers at work loading mules at the Rock Creek Pack Station

To my relief, out of the chaos emerged a strong, weatherworn older woman with kind eyes and sandy braid who introduced herself as Patty, our cook. We learned that several groups were leaving at the same time, and that there would be three families on our Parent Child trip. Over a tasty breakfast of French toast, ham, fruit and strong coffee, we met the team: 14-year-old Andre with his grandparents Patrick and Charlotte from Redwood City, and six-year-old Gwen with her mom Brecken, from Altadena (“near Pasadena”). Accompanying us would be Patty, and packers Joe and Yuki.

Patty directs proceedings at the Pack Station

Eventually we were mounted on our horses and making our way along the dusty trail to Hilton Lakes led by Patty. 

On the trail

Tenaya and Tip

Tara and Levi

A 10:30 AM ‘lunch break’ was a welcome opportunity to not sit on the horse. I had concluded that my knock knees were entirely the wrong shape for any semblance of comfort in the saddle and vied with Charlotte to be the last person mounted again: ‘Last on, least pain’. 

Looking back up Rock Creek Canyon to Bear Creek Spire

"Lunch"

The ride was mercifully short, and after a brief wrong turn ending in the excitement of fording a small stream, we arrived at camp pleasantly situated in a broad swath of forest on the shore of the second Hilton Lake. 

The party crossing the stream

Soon tents were up, the outdoor kitchen was established, and camp chairs circled a gas ‘fire pit’. Around this ersatz campfire, in that comfortable and companionable space after dinner and before bed, friendships were forged, memories made, and mysteries solved.

The Hilton Lakes Valley has all of the grandeur of the neighboring Little Lakes Valley with its own string of jewellike lakes dominated by the towering Mount Huntington…. but a fraction of the people. We set out to explore the valley on the second day with a group, including Tenaya and Tara, heading out on horseback to the third lake, and then on foot to the fourth Lake. I opted to trot along behind on my own two legs and then go gallivanting crosscountry on a quest to find Lakes 5 to 7. There really is nothing that I enjoy more than following my nose to discover high and beautiful places in the mountains. It was glorious.

Early morning at camp with Mount Huntington

At the third Hilton Lake

The girls and I at the third Hilton Lake

Iceberg in the fifth Hilton Lake

Flowers line the sixth Hilton Lake

Back at camp, conversations ebbed and flowed between clients and staff in small groups that, in the late afternoon, coalesced around the makeshift kitchen where Patty held court, the sun to all our planets. The girls warmed to her friendly down-to-earth style born of the myriad of jobs she had held and experiences that she had had, many of them in the great outdoors. “You don’t need to go to college”, she told them, “I’m a great fan of technical education, you can go a long way in a trade”. They listened and I rejoiced. Never once in their privileged Silicon Valley upbringing had they received this message. Patty opened their minds and won my heart in a single simple statement.

Patty in her element - serving delicious food and dispensing sage advice

I was fascinated to hear Patty’s stories of her time spent in the mountains on horse trips like this. As a backpacker/climber, I was no doubt biased in as self-righteous sort of way towards self-propelled exploration and adventure.  My recent forays using the most modern, ultralight gear underscored this ethic. We had been given a baggage allowance of 35 pounds yet could barely get to 15 with my tiny sleeping pad and 800 fill down bag. In contrast, Patty rolled out a bedroll that weighed about 25 pounds. The girls and I were clad in convertible pants and mosquito proof shirts of quick drying fabric, high-tech layers with names like ‘Nanopuff’ and ‘Ghostwhisperer’. Patty wore jeans, a checked shirt and broad brim hat. Not a North Face or Patagonia label in sight. Yet I sensed a kindred spirit in her love of a rough backcountry life, and in the freedom and joy experienced in roaming the mountains.

L to R: Joe, Yuki, Andre, Patrick, and Charlotte gather around our 'fireplace'

   

At the end of the day, after the horses had been watered and fed and other chores attended to, Joe and Yuki quietly joined the circle. Joe, lanky and fair, had long been a mule packer; Yuki, a sturdy Japanese-American, was on his first trip after a lengthy spell in the Marines. Joe had studied cattle nutrition at college; Yuki was preparing for a degree in natural resource management and aspired to become a Park Ranger. Both were understated but good-natured: they were willing to be drawn out after initial reticence.

Joe tethers one of the mules

From Joe, we learned about the life of a mule packer. The predawn starts, the long, strenuous days, the nights spent under the stars with their stock, the rhythm of life not much changed in a century. Sometimes weeks at a time on the trail, beyond the reach of the electronic leash that tethers too many of us today. Winters spent earning money to supplement the hard-working, hard living summers. The excitement of the Bishop, CA Mule Days held in May, when contenders from the surrounding pack outfits came to compete in a variety of seemingly outrageous events….. and how even this had become almost mainstream: “Even Berkeley has a mule packing team now”. We learned that mules were definitely smarter than horses, would harbor a grudge for months yet were loyal to their rider. We learned that there was always only one mare on the pack trip, the bell mare, that was unequivocally the boss, and that all other mules were jacks that would follow the sound of bell around the mare’s neck. We also learned that the jacks could be tricked into coming to the sound of the same bell in the packer’s hand.

A thought occurred to me, and I asked Joe whether pack trips ran down the Mono Valley and explained my experience a few years ago. He told me that it was a common route, and that parties often camped upstream while the packers drove the mules downstream to graze in a meadow near the second Mono Recess, the exact spot at which I had camped. Mystery solved.

Evening campfire

In the fireside discussion that night, Charlotte, a poet, posited the importance of poetry in our lives and asked whether anyone had anything to recite. A number of us squirmed uncomfortably…but Joe shyly offered up some cowboy poetry entitled ‘The Bell Mare’. It reminded him, he said, of the bell mare he had once had: cranky, old, nothing much to look at, but always reliable, and of how much he had loved her.

In the introspective silence that followed, I realized that Charlotte was right, that I was ignorant, that my view of what constituted a ‘Sierra adventurer’ had been blinkered and narrow. This trip had been intended as backcountry therapy for my daughters; I was just along for the ride, so to speak. Tenaya and Tara loved the experience, but I returned feeling as if, in this collision of the parallel universes of backpacking and horse packing, my world, too, had expanded.

Thank you, Patty, Joe and Yuki.

The Bell Mare – Bruce Kiskaddon

She was nothin' much to look at, that there old fleabitten gray.

She'd a cranky disposition, but you liked her any way.

Wasn't big nor wasn't little, wasn't no particular breed,

But you kep her fer a bell mare 'cause she always took the lead.

When you had to work rough country where a wagon couldn't go;

Climbin' up onto the mesa with yore pack train movin' slow.

Through the pinnacles and ledges they would foller where she led,

It was good to hear the jingle of the bell mare up ahead.

In the swampy river bottoms, in the early mornin' hush;

When you started out to wrangle in the fog and in the brush;

If you once could git the bell mare why the rest was easy found,

And yore horse would chomp the bridle while you listened fer the sound.

'Round the campfire in the evenin' when they had big yarns to tell,

Faint and dim off in the distance come the jingle of the bell.

Or a driftin' down a canyon when the sun was blazin' hot,

How she kep the bell a ringin' to her steady even trot.

Years have gone, there's been big changes, but sometimes when yore alone.

Some sound you didn't notice, makes you recollect the tone.

And it starts your memory driftin' till at last you feel the spell.

Of the country where you wrangled, and the jingle of the bell.

When things go right: Ansel Adams Wilderness

Sometimes nothing needs to go wrong to make a backcountry trip memorable; sometimes things just need to go right.

Increasingly disillusioned with the competitive savagery overlaid with a veneer of civility that is Silicon Valley, my family and I decamped and moved to Mammoth Lakes, a resort town in the heart of the Sierra Nevada, for two months over the summer. We had few plans - a rented house, a couple of trips aimed at dragging recalcitrant electronic-addicted teenagers into the wilderness by different means, and a permit for Girl Scout backpacking trip into the Ansel Adams Wilderness. The rest, we’d wing. This approach flew directly in the face of all my Type A organizational instincts, a major step outside my comfort zone. Nevertheless, I plotted and planned and researched and prepared for months in advance to ensure a smooth transition to our new mountain abode.

From the start of summer, what could go wrong, did go wrong. Plan A turned into Plan B, C, D, even E…. over and over and over. To start with, the previous winter had dumped record amounts of snow across the Sierra Nevada. They were living up to their name. Just getting to Mammoth was a challenge with uncertainty as to whether passes would open and whether our new electric car would have sufficient range to surmount the 10,000ft passes. Plans changed daily as the stress levels ratcheted up. A last-minute requirement to attend a US citizenship ceremony after our planned departure date threw a further wrench in the works. On eventual arrival came the discovery that Mammoth Lakes did not have mail delivery, so the carefully organized USPS mail forwarding was quite useless, initiating a continuing mail snafu. On the first night in our rented house, the teens cooking on an unfamiliar gas stove managed to flame out the control panel rendering the oven unusable. Shortly thereafter our ‘new’ SUV suffered transmission failure and was declared kaput. My older daughter turned 16 and  easily picked up a job, but the obtaining the required work permit proved a far greater challenge.  One headache followed another and our first weeks in Mammoth were fraught with tension.

Still, I had the Girl Scout backpacking trip to the Ansel Adams wilderness to look forward to. I had mapped out a route six months earlier suitable for all levels and had enthusiastically (‘We’ll exit lower than we enter!!”) rounded up a group of ten to share in the adventure. What could go wrong? One by one, group members dropped out for assorted reasons - a baby shower, housesitting obligations.  My younger daughter declared in no uncertain terms that SHE was NOT walking ANYWHERE. A week before the trip, we were down to four. The nail in the coffin was the fact that the road to the trailhead was still closed due to winter damage and our exit trail was closed until September due to dangerously high waters in the aptly named Rush Creek. Everyone else dropped out. It would be an unanticipated solo trip.

I was bedeviled by a slew of unanswered questions. How much snow was on the passes? Were crampons needed? Which lakes had thawed? Were the rivers safe to cross? Could I get to the trailhead on my road bike? It was four miles from Mammoth Mountain over Minaret Pass and down to Agnew Meadows which seemed doable on the way in, but could I ride back up the steep road at altitude carrying a pack? I scoured the Sierra hiking forums for news and pumped the rangers for information….which unsatisfactorily ambiguous results.

“Mum, they have opened the road to Minaret Pass!” This welcome fact, gleaned from Facebook by my younger daughter the day before departure, was a turning point. It cut the approach to the trailhead virtually in half.  Alistair dropped me off at the pass the next morning, to my great relief, sans bike. 

From Minaret Vista, the iconic view of Ansel Adams wilderness to the west featured a dominating backdrop of the jagged Minaret Range, a volcanic ridge in the mid-distance above Yosemite like granite cliffs, the San Joaquin River Valley, and finally the eastern San Joaquin Ridge. 

Dusk from the Minaret Overlook: two daughters and a row of minarets.

Trip route: Day 1 - Yellow, Day 2 - Purple, Day 3 - Red

The area was a cornucopia of hidden lakes, splendid views, towering spires, lush gardens….. and above all, the summer especially, water: rivers, streams, brooks, rivulets, waterfalls, cascades. The area was bathed in the music of water flowing. The tinkling drips of melting snow, the chattering of exuberant streams, the deep roaring waterfalls exploding through tight chasms, and the sibilant San Joaquin gliding inexorably down the valley. To drought parched ears, it was a welcome symphony, constantly changing depending on position, always delighting.

Water, water everywhere.

Granite faces above the San Joaquin Valley, looking south to Mammoth Mountain

And indeed, I moved through this veritable Shangri-La in the state of delight and wonder. Each turn brought new treasures. The cheerful company of a group of women from Sacramento headed toward the trailhead to walk a loop approximately opposite to my own, and our fortuitous reunion at the apex of the loop, the women extolling the virtues of the Pacific Crest Trail running high above the valley and causing me to change my plans for the better. Shadow Creek thundering down its narrow precipitous drop into the valley, topped by Shadow Lake, and further up Ediza Lake, still mostly frozen, nestled in a basin beneath the Minarets and Mount Banner and Mount Ritter. 

Shadow Lake

The approach to Lake Ediza had some tricky routefinding

Lake Ediza emerging from the lingering grip of winter, below the Minarets

On the trail beneath Mt Ritter (L) and Mt Banner (R), the local giants.

A campsite perched on a granite bench favoring sunset over the range with glorious alpenglow. The arrival of evening neighbors, young Stanford neuroscientists (mostly), unexpectedly a source of lively and stimulating conversation. 

My friendly neuroscientist neighbours. My campsite was on the ledge behind the centre pine tree.

The coincidental arrival of the same group just down from the second campsite atop cliffs of basalt columns with killer views across the San Joaquin River to the west, and an invitation to share a mosquito repelling fire. 

Warding off the mosquitoes looking west to the Minaret range from the Pacific Crest Trail. 

Starry, starry night

Garnet Lake and Thousand Island Lake, progressively and paradoxically both more thawed and at higher elevation. Passes, snowbound yet softening in the Sierra sun, yielding to careful footsteps.

Garnet Lake and Mt Banner

Thousand Island Lake and Mt Banner

 Bright, verdant meadows, embracing sparkling streams, cascading down the steep slopes.

Meadows along the PCT on the San Joaquin Ridge

Lilies

 The kind couple who provided a lift from Minaret Vista to my front door after the slog back up the road at the end of the trip.

The irony was that I was unable to record any of these marvels on film, having accidentally left my phone (camera) behind. Somehow, freed from the pervasive pressure to photograph, I was able to truly see, to perceive, to deeply imprint memories of sights, sounds and sensations. 

Yes, this was a trip on which everything went right.

Looking pretty happy at the end.

Note: the photographs were very kindly provided by Arnold and Aparna, my Stanford neighbors. We traveled almost identical trails about one hour apart!

Throwback Thursday: Flipper Goes Climbing, 2001

Searching for a random file today I came across this, written a little over 16 years ago:

Perched high above the Valley floor, watching avalanches thunder down from the top of Half Dome, I felt Flipper begin to voice its approval by engaging in a vigorous bout of amniotic aerobics. Kick, wriggle, turn, punch, kick, jab, a quick one to the bladder and a full flip. Flipper, age T-zero minus 3 months, was having its first Yosemite wall experience. As was I, Flipper’s mum. 

It seemed like the natural thing to do. After all, Flipper got its start in life during a late summer trip to Tuolumne meadows immediately before an ascent of the Regular Route on Fairview Dome. It had proceeded to get hauled up a number of other routes in Tuolumne, Yosemite Valley and Joshua Tree over the next few months, despite a combination of bad weather and first trimester exhaustion. However, these factors had stymied plans to try wall climbing. When energy levels returned to near normal at the beginning of the year, my husband Alistair casually suggested that we try a “small wall” together – climb up Washington’s Column as far as Dinner Ledge and bivy there before descending the next day. My initial reaction was “Great - what pitches could I lead?”, being keen to try aid climbing. This was shortly followed by “Damn, baby on board, no leading for me”. Waiting for a suitable break in the weather, the weeks slid by, the harness grew ever tighter, and the gym routes seemed to get steeper and steeper. Finally, spring arrived and, with approximately 0.5mm room left in my harness, it was now or never.

Despite Al carrying the lion’s share of gear, the approach hike seemed harder than it should have. Total weight of pack plus pregnancy poundage wasn’t more than a good sized backpack, and I had blithely assumed that it would be equivalent. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. A good sized backpack is not generally in need of oxygenation and does not get in the way when you are trying to take a high step. After arriving at the base of the 4^th class approach pitch, we decided to play it safe, and Al clambered on up with the Piglet (our very small homemade haulbag) and belayed me up to the start of the climb proper. 

Alistair led up the first 5.8 pitch and started hauling while I started jugging [pulling myself up using ascending devices]. I had decided to simply jug to the ledge rather than climb as apart from the first pitch, all were beyond my bump-encumbered free-climbing capability. The Piglet being mini-sized, I was also carrying a backpack with the remaining gear. Thus, a relatively simple pitch became a major struggle. Despite having jugged without problem previously, nothing seemed to quite work this time. On the less than vertical terrain, my feet would slip out of the webbing footsteps, and my expanding girth made repositioning them quite a task. The backpack pulled me back when I tried to pull up. The whole experience reminded me of a route description in the Vedauwoo guidebook: “Make sure there ain’t no church ladies strolling by when you hop on this grunter”. Grunt, I did, and sweat and curse. Copiously.  After Herculean effort, I lay like a beached whale on the ledge at the top of the first pitch, listening to Al tell me that the next pitch was much more strenuous. Having just been instructed by my doctor to take things a little easier, carrying on seemed potentially foolhardy, but I didn’t want to retreat either. The ledge seemed perfectly adequate for one of my main goals before committing to motherhood:  a wall bivy.  We decided to spend the night there.

At the top of pitch 1 with Flipper on board

The afternoon was spent in idyllic sloth under a warm California sun. Flipper flipped, while its Dad and I lolled about admiring the glorious scenery and watching the canyon wrens diving around our perch. Dinner was accompanied by last light on Half Dome and a veritable bird party swooping about our heads. Magical and memorable. From time to time small showers of pebbles would rain down from above where parties were topping out over the last loose pitch of the Column, and we would pull on our helmets and hunker in against the rock to avoid the barrage. 

A fine spot for reading a book

Dinner time- just mind the rocks coming down!

The night was mild and starlit, and much to my surprise, I slept well, waking only occasionally to have a look at the view by moonlight.

After an excellent night's sleep

 A 5am raid by the resident ring-tailed cat ensured an authentic bivy. The little bastard chewed a gaping hole in the pack and made off with our breakfast bagels. Oh well, it was time to head down anyway – normally, I detest the level of development in the Valley, but I had to admit that the breakfast buffet only an hour away from the ledge was pretty damned convenient. As I hoed into an enormous plate of artery-clogging sausage, eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and all the attendant trimmings, I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face. Al was looking somewhat embarrassed at only having managed to get one pitch off the deck, but to me, it was the perfect climbing adventure.

Three and a half months later, as I am writing this, Flipper still hasn’t choosen to show itself. The due date has come and gone and the waiting is on in earnest. All bets are on amongst friends and family for the age of the child when it is first taken up a cliff in a backpack. Al harbors fond hopes that some day, he or she will be leading Dad up 5.11s in his retirement. They say that you can influence a child’s nature by what you do to them in utero – perhaps this trip was one step in that direction.

May 2017 update: 

What a time of innocence May 2001 was in so many ways. The possibilities, the dreams. We could never have imagined the path ahead, perched on that not-so-high ledge. Just a few short months later, terrorists would attack the US and a part of that innocence would vanish forever. 

Flipper arrived nearly 2 weeks late. We named her Tenaya, reflecting her Yosemite roots of course. Tenaya papaya. Years of love and pain, pain and love. Tenaya, capricious as a New Zealand spring day, in turn bright and sparkling, blustering, storming, sullen, then brilliantly sunny once more. A force of nature. A compact parcel of puzzling contradiction, seething with unrealized potential, fragile wings straining to burst forth, absolute certainty mixed with crippling self-doubt. Railing against parental direction, a teenage tempest (does she know how much she is loved?).

It doesn't look like Al will get his wish about being led up the cliff by his daughter; that is not her thing, despite countless outdoor experiences. That's OK, she is forging her own strong-minded path. One day she will change this world.

Valley Autumn Oddball Odyssey: Canyoneering down Yosemite Falls

After the Ledge Trail warm-up, Al and I were raring to go the following day...until we hopped out of our beautifully comfortable bed to find complaining muscles. Nevertheless, by 8 AM we were geared up at the base of Yosemite Falls, contemplating the route ahead. Our objective was for once, not climbing, but descending. A descent of the canyon between the base of upper Yosemite Falls and the top of lower Yosemite Falls via a canyoneering route named "Middle Earth", to be precise. What canyon? you might well ask, even if you have visited Yosemite frequently. In spring flows,  it is easy to overlook this section when your attention is diverted by the splendour of the immense volumes of water pounding down the 1500 foot Upper Falls, and the 350 foot Lower Falls, However, in late summer, when the falls are dry, the canyon section opens up to idiots like us who love to explore. 

Before entering the canyon, we needed first to climb up into the amphitheatre at the base of the Upper Falls to the start of the route. There were two ways to approach this: either up the extremely well travelled Yosemite Falls Trail (with another conga line of hikers), or up the climbers' descent route from Sunnyside Bench, a row of cliffs to the right of Lower Yosemite Falls. I opined that the established Falls Trail would be quickest - I knew we could get to the amphitheatre in perhaps a little over an hour.  Alistair asserted that the climbers' route would be much shorter. Shorter won out. Three hours later, we made it to the top of the canyon.

The climbers' trail was steep, narrow with loose footing and, teetering above the cliffs of Sunnyside Bench, quite exposed at times. In other words, par for the course for a climbers trail. The problem was that I just hadn't done enough climbing recently, and was feeling extremely insecure shod in my water sandals. When we needed to traverse some steep slabs which required a few exposed technical moves, I balked at doing them in my Tevas. Alistair of course had scrambled across like the mountain goat he is. I whimpered and moaned at the base. Finally, I broke out the magic sticky rubber climbing shoes, waltzed across the moves, and my mojo was restored. It was full steam ahead.

Feeling quite exposed here as there is a huge cliff just over the side

A good section of the climbers trail above Sunnyside Bench

Climbing shoes on, no worries!

We charged forward with great eagerness, scrambling up across open slabs and through bushes until finally we were greeted by this:

Is Lost Arrow Spire saying something to us?

It was Lost Arrow Spire. We were almost at its base. There were some excellent bivy spots and the views were marvelous...of the waterfall amphitheater about 500 ft below.  Suddenly the Spire seemed to mock us like a giant middle finger. Sigh. There was nothing for it but to backtrack down, down, down. We told ourselves with some futility that the 'bonus' hike was an excellent warm-up and would work out the kinks in our legs from the previous day.  Eventually, the correct trail materialised  and we were soon approaching the base of the Upper Falls.

Almost into the amphitheatre with the Upper Falls completely dry

The base of the Upper Falls

An extremely foreshortened view up the Upper Falls

After playing an entertaining game of 'listen to that echo bounce' with some other hikers on the nearby Yosemite Falls Trail, it was time to get the business and start our descent down the canyon.

The start of the canyon from the base of the Upper Falls

The first rappel was a short one, but after the second, we were well and truly committed. There was no escape upwards, it would have to be down.

Setting off on the first rappel

Beyond the point of no return!

We found a terrific shady alcove featuring another view of Lost Arrow Spire for lunch before venturing down the really long drops which were reputed to end in pools of water. We really didn't want our sandwiches getting wet.  Beyond this point, the phone was stowed in the dry bag, and so I have stolen a few images from other trip reports, presumably taken on waterproof cameras, to give you an idea of the challenges involved.

Lunch alcove with view of Lost Arrow Spire

A series of linked rappels took us down an enormous cliff, perhaps 250 feet high. In any other park, this would be an impressive waterfall in its own right in spring. In Yosemite, virtually no one knows of its existence. Incredibly, we spotted life where we expected none to survive: in an overhanging crack grew a thriving garden of verdant ferns, and a tiny garter snake wriggled across the slabs to the trickle of water that was seeping down from the canyon walls. 

One of the long drops, with the fern garden hidden under the overhang (borrowed photo)

Lonely garter snake seeking water

Between rappels, we scrambled through boulder fields and down slick slabs polished by an unknowable volume of water. 

At one spot, Alistair managed to squeeze his skinny hips through a tiny hole formed under a chockstone wedged between a boulder and the canyon wall, and scrambled down the 10 foot drop below. When I tried to repeat this manoeuvre, I couldn't fit, and became wedged firmly, legs kicking in mid air. "Alistair," I called, "I think my bum is too big!". "Here," he responded helpfully, "let me climb up and pull your leg - maybe you'll fit then". He proceeded to scramble up, grasp an ankle, and start hauling. I yelped. "Not going to work!", thinking of poor Winnie the Pooh stuck in Rabbit's hole, and wondering whether I too would have to remain ignominiously wedged until I got skinny enough to escape. Fortunately, with a fair bit of wiggling and some choice words, I managed to reverse direction and eventually found another way to get down.

.

Several of the drops did indeed end in deep pools of water; going swimming was inescapable. Thankfully, the day had heated up and we were not unhappy at the prospect. Breaststroke in full clothes, helmet, harness, pack, climbing shoes, and a rope slung over my back proved particularly inelegant and surprisingly strenuous. Alistair did not seem to fare much better. At one point, rather than try and escape the rappel while treading water(which seemed like a fast way to drown yourself), he opted for butt-scooching down the steep slab until he lost control and hurtled into the water to achieve splashdown. Awesome move,  Al!

To avoid the jump into unknown depths, we rappelled to the right. This was where Alistair slid down the slabs.(borrowed photo)

One final drop and one final swim led us to the top of the Lower Yosemite Falls where we basked in the sun trying to warm up.

The last drop into the final pool, with the Upper Falls visible at the rear (borrowed photo)

Looking somewhat bedraggled and cold!

We reversed our steps along the Sunnyside Bench Trail. This time, skipping along was no trouble - it seemed so straightforward after getting down that canyon. By the time we got back to the car at about 4 PM, we were simultaneously damp and dehydrated. Celebration and sustenance were called for and found at the Priest Station restaurant below Big Oak Flat ( highly recommended!). Beer and ribs -mmmmm. As we sated our thirst and hunger, I contemplated the strange fact that the excellent weekend's adventures would not have taken place were it not for a couple of young idiots in a souped up car on a Friday night in Auckland, New Zealand. Ripples of consequence.

Celebrating at the Priest Station. Photo taken, incidentally, by Alex Honnold's mum, Dierdre, with whom we had a lovely conversation. We ended up exchanging details and hope to climb together next summer in Lover's Leap.