GRAND CANYON: YOSEMITE

We have stayed three days longer than intended. Once again I am reminded how difficult it is to escape the hold of this valley. Motowners are like the variety of tree ironically named Trees of Heaven. Once they take root they do not let go. They spread and swallow the land.

Our plan begins with golf at Wawona, a course at the southwestern tip of Yosemite National Park. It is a place of bountiful beauty that Jere and Patty have told us about. Our route takes us through Merced, a town smaller but strikingly similar to Modesto. In fact, it strikes me that all these valley towns are pretty much the same: Bakersfield, Fresno, Merced, Stockton, Modesto, Lodi and Sacramento. They are variations on a theme of commercial development with agricultural roots. The valley has been invaded by an army of Bay Area commuters. It is a boon to real estate but a nightmare to renters and working people who are rapidly abandoning their dreams of home ownership. Thousands of people prefer to drive up to two hundred miles a day rather than pay the high price of housing on their own turf.

As we turn east into the Sierra foothills, I am reminded of an ill-fated bicycle trip a good friend and I once took along this path. We set out for Yosemite from Turlock with packs on our backs and nothing but grit. We took no precautions such as tools, flashlights, spare tires or pumps. My compadre had neglected to sport underwear and developed a rash. I vividly remember watching him climb slowly up these rolling hills, pack swaying from side to side, as he tried to avoid contact with his seat. We slept in a cow pasture in pitch-black darkness not more than a mile from the nearest town. We made it as far as Mariposa, gateway to the national park, when a downpour of rain gave us an excuse to turn back. A flat tire in Merced allowed us to call for a ride home. It was a memorable journey despite the misfortunes and the fact that we never reached our destiny.

Our friendship was then as tight and secure as Wiz and I are now. It would end several years later. I was directing a play and recruited him as my set designer. He interrupted a rehearsal by moving set pieces on stage. When I expressed my displeasure he walked out. Within a week came the news that he had overturned his car on the freeway. He’d lost consciousness while driving, a victim of his own adventurous spirit. He was fortunate to survive but he lost control of the muscles and nerves that move the left eyelid. It was fixed in a closed position and there it would remain. He was a superb actor and a prince of a man though he would prefer the title of court jester. He took risks and that path constantly took him to the edge. When he pushed it too far he paid the price. He fell into an abyss. Some would say he jumped. The wonder is that he returned to carry on.

Would it have happened had I not chastised him for something so ultimately unimportant? Would it have happened if he had not walked out? No one can say. We would become friends again but we would never be brothers. We lost that sense of trust. I can only believe it is as it is supposed to be. I will remember this and hold on when it is my turn to take the fall. We all get a turn. Things do not happen at random. If I have learned anything on the journey it is this: There is a reason and a purpose to the events and experiences that cross our paths. We should not fear and avoid them, but rather embrace and learn from them.

We turn south at Mariposa and wind our way to Wawona. Throughout our journey we have been advised to take precautions and make reservations in advance but we prefer to take our chances. If it is meant to happen it will.

Am I a fatalist? Yes, I believe in fate. I believe in magic. I believe in karma. I believe in spirits and the soul. I believe there is infinitely more beyond our grasp than within it. Do we have a choice? Yes, we have a choice to deny it or embrace it. Deny it and you deny yourself. Embrace it and grow. Become the thing you are intended to be.

The first time I faced the charge of fatalism it was at the hand of a high school world geography teacher whom I respected. I had written what I considered an excellent essay on a subject that now escapes me. The paper came back with a grade of B and the comment: Isn’t this a bit fatalistic? It was the first time my work was criticized for the content of my theme rather than the quality of the work. It had a profound effect and sent me into a period of doubt. It would be years before I would allow myself to further explore the concept of fate. By deferring to authority I had delayed the journey of my soul.

At the entrance to Yosemite the ranger waves the fee with the statement: We’re not charging today. We have now visited two of America’s most popular national parks free of charge. This is how it should be and we accept it as a blessing.

Wawona is far from the glacier valley of Half Dome, Indian Caves, Yosemite Falls and El Capitan. It possesses a more placid beauty with tall redwood pines and open fields of tall grass and wildflowers nestled in a terrain where the gentle foothills begin their transformation to the high Sierra peaks. Wawona Lodge is a large white wooden structure of southern forties grace with its long row of elegant columns running the length of the structure and bordering its front porch. There are countless squirrels, ducks, swan and deer on its huge expanse of bright green lawn mixing with the boarders in soft white, blue and pink attire.

There is plenty of sunlight left in the day as we check in at a clubhouse that doubles as the village grocery store. We are invited to tee up whenever we like. Wiz and I are at the top of our games through the first four holes. There are curious warning signs at the first and third tees: The first tells the tale of a seven-year-old boy who lost his life to an antlered deer. The second warns of a rattlesnake without rattles. I surmise it is an effective means of keeping golfers out of the natural brush representing the rough.

The fifth hole takes my breath away. It is a long par four from an elevated tee, dropping steeply to a typically small and well-bunkered green. It is exceptionally narrow with tall redwoods on both sides. I try to control my tee shot, constricting the muscles of my arms and body and upsetting the natural rhythm of my swing. It sails off right into the woods. I am forced to take a drop, miss my next two shots on a downhill lie and end up with a triple bogey. Wiz is in a smooth and relaxed groove. He plays it like a champ, saving par with a short chip and putt.

As we walk to the next hole Wiz brings up our scores and makes a joke about the master’s fall. Suddenly, we have entered the world of competitive golf. He later says it was only meaningless patter, an expression of his sense of humor. He doesn’t seem to realize that expressions of humor often have a dark and serious side. The words we choose to let loose on the world are never without meaning. I have witnessed the cold harshness of his joking interactions with his girlfriend and watched nearly come to blows. It is a lesson he has yet to learn.

Wiz has the honor of shooting first at the next tee. He fires the ball into the tall grass. He refuses to take a mulligan. I step to the tee and send a three-iron sailing two hundred yards and slightly left of the target. It fades and settles gently on the center of the green. The gods of golf have spoken. I save par on the next hole with a nice sand wedge while Wiz continues to struggle. He drops seven strokes in two holes. The golf gods have delivered a stern lesson. Golf is a game of ultimate humility. Wiz will have his day. As I have often told him, though I have been his mentor, he will better me as a matter of course. It will happen but it will not happen on a day when he is brash and cocky. It will not happen when he raises the red flag of competition. It will not happen today.

We finish the round in good spirits and head off to Yosemite Valley as the sun sets in the west. Night has fallen by the time we arrive. We are surprised to find the village store still open and a nightlife happening. As I wander off to find an open restroom Wiz purchases a small flashlight, two pints of Sam Adams lager, a fifth of cognac and a couple of microwave Mexican food platters. He starts up a conversation with a wild-eyed teenager. The thought that runs through our minds is little short of absurd. We have been on the road too long.

We find a picnic table outside in front of the village snack bar and position ourselves to view the young ladies who seem everywhere on this scene. Except for the tamales, which are passable, the Mexican platters are by far the worst excuse for a meal we have taken on the journey. It doesn’t matter. The beer is great. We wander back toward the parking lot, scouting for a place to sleep, when I spot a couple of rangers approaching in the sparse light. I wonder aloud if it’s cool to have an open beer on the park grounds. Wiz replies: If he stops us we’ll have to kill him. It is a joke that will not seem funny as time rolls on.

I stay with Sally as Wiz take the flashlight and explores the surroundings. He spots a place to lay out our bags on the backside of park headquarters and off we go. Again he jokes: If they catch us we’ll just have to kill them. We settle down for the night and reflect on the journey behind us as well as the journey ahead. We are pleased. We had discussed crossing Tioga Pass during the night but fatigue and hunger have held us back. It is the path that has chosen us. Wiz observes that we could easily have come to hate each other by now. That is one of the dangers of the journey. We agree that our friendship is secure and count our blessings. It is the first time we have allowed ourselves to look back and reflect with satisfaction the distance we have traveled. Now we speak at length, retelling the stories and recounting our own versions on the events of the last two weeks. We finish off the liquor and settle in for sweet dreams and visions of tomorrow.

Tomorrow greets us at the crack of dawn with a world of beauty and grace. It seems frozen in time. We leave our empty bottles at the front of the building where they are sure to be spotted and discarded properly. Wiz does not want to risk being discovered carrying them to the nearest garbage can. I make a vow to balance our karma by picking up someone else’s trash down the line.

We can find no coffee and must be content with cans of coke from a vending machine. We set out for Tioga Pass but are soon overtaken by Yosemite’s mystical pull. We opt for a hike to Yosemite Falls and I recount the story of my first drunk. It was a sixth grade field trip and one of my friends turned me on to a strange wine concoction known as Bali Hai. Beneath the majesty of Yosemite Falls I fell as sick as I had ever been in my young life. I have always it seems been attracted to friends who were driven by risk and adventure.

It is early and we are alone in the splendor of John Muir’s valley. We linger longer than we should, long enough to collect our thoughts, becoming one with the animal and Indian spirits that still rule this sacred kingdom, and then we resume the journey.