Heaven (With Mosquitos)

[ Day 4 – June 16, 2012 ] 

I woke up before five and packed my things in the dark, determined to be on the road by sunrise. I was far from fully rested, but I had no interest in sharing the tunnels of Big Oak Flat with motor vehicles, nor did I wish to experience anything close to the valley’s peak daytime temperature. With 4,600 feet of climbing to be tackled on a travel-worn derriere, the what of this challenge was non-negotiable. Instead, I focused on the how and when.

My bike was soon ready for the road, and I was as ready as I would be. I quietly made my way out of the campground, walking past sites of mostly sleeping inhabitants down to Northside Drive. I stood in pre-dawn silence at the road’s edge, hesitant. I knew that sitting on the bike would be painful. Exactly how painful I preferred not to know, but I also wanted to get on with it; fear of getting started was one of the few burdens I could dispatch. I reminded myself that every act in the human repertoire is done in service to some desire, however roundabout or perverse, and that I desired to be on my way. I threw my leg over the bike’s top tube, pedaled a few standing turns of the crankset, and took a seat. The pain was excruciating; my eyes involuntarily teared up. This was going to be even worse than I’d thought. I wondered how long I could continue riding.

But necessity breeds resilience, and this moment was no exception. Though it was the worst discomfort I had ever experienced on a bicycle, it was a steady pain, physically no worse from one moment to the next. When momentary resolve wore thin, I could bike standing up or even dismount entirely. If I ran completely out of steam, I could try thumbing it to Tuolumne Meadows. If that failed, I could coast back down to the valley, letting gravity do all the work. I grit my teeth and pedaled forward.

So began the tedious process of riding a bicycle up the better part of a vertical mile.

One after another, I slowly knocked back the miles as the valley awoke before me. I adopted a marathoner’s disposition: every landmark was a milestone, every mile a compartment unto itself. Each small victory removed a piece from the challenge and added it to my own sense of capacity. By the time I hit Tioga Road, the scale had tipped in my favor, the emotional momentum pushing harder than the dual pull of gravity and physical discomfort.

By late morning I reached White Wolf Road, where I stopped to celebrate my progress—30 miles and almost 4,000 feet of climbing—with a snack lunch and some time off the saddle. The ride that followed was mostly pleasant, aided by unfamiliar and increasingly beautiful roadside scenery. My view soon opened up onto the High Country, a visual and natural glory that was expected, but still breathtaking. I peered across the valley to Half Dome, staring it almost at eye level. When I caught my first glimpse at Tenaya Lake, I knew that the rest of the day’s ride was just a victory lap.

Pleasant though it was, I was still eager to reach Tuolumne Meadows and spend an afternoon away from my bicycle and its “devil saddle.” I pressed on, past the tempting waters of Tenaya Lake and towards my destination. After about 55 testing miles of riding, I pulled up next to the Tuolumne Meadows general store. I was sweaty, sore, exhausted, and relieved. I had no idea whether I would be able to ride the next day, but I’d conquered one of the most challenging climbs of the whole ride, and my focus shifted towards calorie replacement. The general store did not disappoint, nor did the soft serve ice cream cone from the vendor next door.

Although I’d been to Yosemite several times before, this was my first visit to the high country. I knew that this part of the park was something special, but nothing prepared me for the magic of the place. Even in my tired, beat-up state, I was still in awe, still eager to explore. The high country seemed to flip the valley’s park attendance on its head: hikers and climbers appeared to be in the majority, with motor tourists few and far between. The vibe was unique, refreshing, and totally energizing.

The flora and fauna might have been the most energizing of all—the whole place was teeming with life. Perhaps it’s because this part of the park sleeps for eight months at a time, and when the snow finally melts everything must cram a year’s worth of living into four months. The plants, animals, and insects all seem so busy living. It was an amazing thing to witness. I hiked up to Elizabeth Lake after dinner, battling the mosquitoes for a glimpse of the lake at sunset. The mosquitoes were voracious, but it was totally worth it. I had the whole lake to myself.

My ride had practically just begun, but I felt like I had achieved something worthwhile. I’d propelled a fully loaded bicycle 260 miles inland and pushed it over a mile and a half into the sky. And now I was in heaven—with mosquitos. No matter what came next, I’d done that. And even if I had to completely abandon my cycling adventure, I had this beautiful, inspiring park so close to home. I marvel at my own good fortune.

[ Daily Miles: 55 ] [ Total Miles: 260 ]

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