Driving through the great Central Valley of California is like surfing a ribbon woven through a patchwork quilt: deep green ripple of rice fields watered by the mighty Sacramento River, corduroy rows of wine grapes, pinnate clustered old growth greens of walnut groves. In early June, we were traveling too late in the season to see the luscious white blizzard of almond groves in bloom, but having seen it, one never forgets.
Once past the orchards of the Central Valley, golden parched fields rolled away in all directions, punctuated by Hereford and Angus cattle grazing among live oak trees on the foothills leading up to the Sierras. Turkey buzzards circled on lazy updrafts. Along the shoulders, bright yellow sunflower bushes tangled with the starbursts of Queen Anne’s lace, cobalt cornflowers blooming at their base. When I rolled the window down, the warm air smelled of dry grass, dust and heated tarmac.
In the Sierra foothills, we passed a manmade lake, an unlikely oasis lined with expensive Mediterranean-style homes gleaming under terra-cotta roofs. Powerboats zipped to and fro on the azure water. “Guess this is where the one percent go to retire,” I said.
Ahead of us, a cattle truck, loaded to the axles, groaned along on a road too steep and narrow for it, slowing our speed. Creeping along, when we topped a rise, I savored the sight of green-garbed foothills marching into a navy-blue distance, shimmering in the clear air. It was a total contrast to our smoke-choked drive home on this same route as we fled Yosemite the previous fall.
Yes, we were starting The Big One by revisiting Yosemite, in no small part hoping to erase the trauma of being caught in the Lukens Lake fire the previous year.
The other compelling reason to kick off our trip at Yosemite was that our son Caleb was hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, that famous path from Mexico to Canada, and we’d timed our arrival to meet up with him.
Caleb had been hiking for two months and had already traversed nine hundred miles from the Mexico border to rendezvous with us.
As we wound higher into the mountains, scrub pines and live oaks gave way to stands of conifers. Many of them, burnt in previous fires, were skeletal and as silver as if sculpted of polished aluminum.
Re-entering the Park on a bright, clear, temperate day as kickoff to our longest trip yet was an important palate cleanser. As I gazed around, I marveled again at the resilience of nature, and of Yosemite in particular.
The traffic into Yosemite began several miles outside the gate. We’d anticipated that it would be crowded; we had been lucky to get a campsite reservation at Tuolumne Meadows due to Mike nabbing one the day scheduling opened.
The temperature was moderate as we crawled in a line of cars into Yosemite. We rolled down the windows and turned off the AC to save the engine as it strained uphill at a creeping pace while towing the five thousand five hundred pound Wanderlust Retro trailer.
Incense cedar, dry grasses, manzanita and fragile wild roses emitted evocative smells as we moved slowly forward in a freight train of cars to the park’s gate. I shut my eyes and prayed silently for a peaceful and restorative visit to beloved Yosemite, a park I’d visited many times. I badly needed a good experience after the burning.
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