It was when I had reached two and thirty years of age, having lived for the better part of the previous decade in the city of San Francisco in the state of California, that I began to grow weary of my pastoral life and yearned in my heart for some sort of adventure that would take me far away from everything that was repetitively familiar to me. It was then at last, after having consulted my budget and gathered the necessary courage that I did undertake a great journey of which I shall tell you of now.
Lo, but had I known that what I envisioned as a peaceful respite from the banality of city life for a brief spell would turn into a wretched trek across the raw and barren and harsh wilderness of the Northern backwoods, that I should encounter beasts of such ferocity that their nighttime screams shook the core of my soul, that I should spend days wandering lost, and tired, and crying out to the heavens for some divine salvation from my miserable state, I would never have left the comforts of my habitation in the first place.
It was on Monday on the last day of the month of June in the year 2003 that I began my foolhardy quest for adventure.
I procured a vehicle for my transport to the high country; a place known as Yosemite National Park. The part of this land called Yosemite Valley I had visited but one month before, and twice more in other years previous to that; that is to say it was an area that was most familiar to me. I observed others who appeared to have stumbled across this land for the first time. They would amble slowly down the road and stop frequently and wander through the path with more concern for the photographs they were creating with their cameras of the natural features of this place than of the oncoming traffic that threatened to lay them flat and dead while their minds were attending to casual matters. "Tourists, bah!" I said, in an arrogant dismissal, and gave direction to my driver to swerve around them and make way to the far end of this lush valley.
Oh, but had only I known that my contact with humans other than my guide would be so limited in the forthcoming days, I should have stopped and wandered distractedly into the street with them, enjoying their company and conversations and savoring the simple interactions and discourse that I would have had! But no, in my arrogant youth I dismissed these beautiful creatures and made my way forward to the most desolate exercise that lay still ahead.
While yet feeling superior to the tourists behind us, our vehicle suddenly came to a halt in the Backpacker's Parking Lot near the Upper Pines campsites. Oh, miserable day! For without our car, how could we make it to the safety of the Toulumne Meadows campsite, at which we had booked reservations four days from then?
Surely there was no hope for immediate rescue, as it was noon on a Monday and there were very few people around. In our location, we would have no chance to flag down a passing vehicle, for we'd stopped at the end of the parking lot, far off the path of the main valley road. And we could hold no hopes to repair the vehicle, for the ignition had been clearly turned off and the keys stored within the pocket of the driver. Our only recourse, it seemed, was to cut a path through the wild and untamed John Muir Trail in the forest, in the hopes that we would soon find ourselves back in the comforts of civilized society again.
Thus began our abominable trek.
We packed up what provisions we could carry upon our backs in large sacks suited for this purpose. We carted off as much food as would fit in our bear-safe storage canisters, a mat upon which to sleep, a tent to make temporary shelter while en route, a few items of clothing for both cold and hot weather, knowing not which we would encounter on our way, scented oils used to block the burning rays of the sun and the sting of flying insects, empty containers for the gathering of water for refreshment, and several other items which we deemed probably appropriate to suit our needs as we made way on the trail.
