Yosemite, Part VI

I was close now. Waking up early on the third day there were about twelve miles to walk (all the maps and signs were in miles, so I’d converted my thinking). But the previous day I’d been limping along at only a mile an hour, the discomfort in my foot just wouldn’t allow for more. I got going before the sun rose to give myself time to get back to the car and medical attention.  In the shadow of the early morning I wound down the escarpment, surprising a family of deer on the way.

I was determined to get back, but also worried about what was to be done with this horrible cut on my foot, which was still oozing blood and throbbing relentlessly.

Reaching the valley floor the path followed the shallow, clear waters of the Tuolumne River as it snaked its way towards home. In the glowing sunshine I hobbled along, stopping now and again to catch my breath. I gazed around at the line of pine-covered mountains rising on either side of the river plain, the snowy peaks back from where I’d come, and the bubbling river flowing gently along, quietly doing what it was made to do.

Before long I began passing people with fishing rods, father and son out for a day in the wild. It looked like paradise, and I envied them for their lack of worry.  

In mid-afternoon, physically and mentally exhausted, I presented myself at the Ranger hut. I needed some help I told them and they called a first aid officer in to look at me.

‘Sorry if I’m a bit smelly’, I said as I unwound the manky, blood-soaked bandage from my foot, ‘it’s been a tough few days’.

‘That’s fine’, she said. Then, looking at the wound, ‘Yeah, you’re going to need to get to hospital for this one. Or there’s a medical centre in Yosemite village if that’s easier for you.’

I drove down to the busy Yosemite village and pulled up at the medical centre. I was waiting behind a Belgian guy who’d smashed his knee rock climbing, and when it was my turn I went in to see Andy the nurse. I took the bandage off.

‘Eeeeeergheeew’, he said. ‘Why didn’t you come in sooner? Hey Jen, come and look at this!’ he called.

In came Jen, another nurse. After looking with a delighted grimace at the gaping, festering wound which now seemed to take up most of the sole of my foot, she asked if I’d mind if she took a photo.

A doctor came in and poked around inside for a bit.

‘We don’t normally put in sutures after two days, but I don’t see any other options’, he said. ‘There’s a high chance of infection so you need to get straight back here if it gets sore and red’.

Up until now the pain had never been too terrible. But after flushing out the wound, it was time for the anaesthetic. I hate needles at the best of times, I really do. And I discovered that a needle in the foot is like no pain I’d ever come across. Six times they jabbed me with that little stick of fire and six times I writhed on the bed as though undergoing an exorcism.

Drained, lonely and sorry for myself, I hopped out of the medical centre to face the next question... how does a man on crutches go about setting up a tent? 

Looking back at the mountains I'd been exploring, the path home was flat and sunny.

In dappled sunshine I limped along beside the quiet river.

Paradise, but I was determined just to get back. 

Yosemite, Part V

I stumbled over the pass, and down the other side. It was fairly steep and rocky country but there were a series of flat grassy meadows ahead. Perfect little nooks for making camp. The view back behind me was of the last of the day’s light on a snowy peak, and ahead was a deep green valley with a twisting river at the base. 

Following the regulations for the Park, I had my food stored in a borrowed bear-proof canister. The black, football-sized container was to be left thirty metres from the tent during the night. The Park had lots of information about how black bears can sniff out a morsel of food from several kilometres away, and such is their taste for human food (not humans themselves though) that they’ll go to great lengths to get their paws on some. Including busting up picnics, and breaking car windows to get the goodies within. There were photos of bears climbing in car windows, and instructions on what to do should a bear approach - mostly making lots of noise and throwing 'small stones.'

Exhausted after dinner, I crawled into my tent ready for sleep. I’d taken no chances and left my canister a good distance away.

But during the night not long after going to sleep, trouble struck. I heard a sniffing and snorting and snuffling round outside the tent and a flapping of the fly. A bear!, I thought as I lay dead still in fear.

I remembered the instructions I'd read, so I kicked into gear and began yelling ‘go on get out of here you bear’ and clapping my hands and clanging my water bottle as loud as I could. After about twenty seconds of this intimidating display of power I stopped to listen for sounds of a bear going away, but instead of less snuffling there was now a rustling round the other side of the tent as well. Two bears? Oh, crap.

Maybe a whole family - a village of bears - had descended on my helpless green tent to plunder the goodness within. Had they smelled blood and sensed I was easy prey? Or did I have any food in there? It was all stashed in the canister thirty metres away, though I had my painkillers and the little bottle of iodine water purifiers with me. I guess I should have put them in the canister. Damn.

It then dawned on me that amongst all the rustlings of the tent there was  no identifiable sniffing and snuffling sounds or actual bear footsteps. After listening for a while longer I poked my head out and confirmed that the wind had come up pretty strong and the fly wasn’t pegged down very tight and was flapping innocently in the moonlight. 

Trusty bear canister

Yosemite, Part IV

My heart was heavy and my stomach queasy as I gently pulled my boot on over the bulky bandage. I looked around at the wonderful mountain scenery I would no longer be exploring - but I had to get this foot looked at. It would be the end of my hiking for a while, I knew that much. I stood up and gingerly put some weight on the left foot. Surprisingly it didn’t feel too bad.

And so began several minutes of internal dialogue...You might never come back here, just keep going – No, it’s too risky, gotta get this foot fixed up – Come on, two days forward or one back, what’s the big difference? – What about blood loss, infection, amputation, slow death? – Look at these mountains, this sky – You’re all alone, don’t be crazy – It’s just a cut – It’s a big cut – I’m walking on – Don’t do it - I’m doing it.

I did it.

Some of the time it was fine, and the landscape was so incredible I was glad to have gone on. I filled my water bottle from cool, bubbling rivers. I hiked quiet paths with views over deep, wooded valleys. I ate simple, tasty food and I contemplated the world around me.

At other times, like when I unwrapped the bandage in the evening and saw blood still oozing insistently out , and I was further from help, I doubted the wisdom of my choice. As I woke in the morning the slow throbbing in my foot reminded me of the previous day’s mishap. It was more painful and I needed a stick to lean on as I hobbled along. I was making slow progress, and climbing over the final pass for the day, I needed to rest every fifty metres and then verbally talk myself into standing up and walking on.

The adventure continued. 

Barren highland landscape

The green Tuolomne Valley

Have you ever seen a river meander like this?