Yosemite Day 5 - A Brutal Detour

 Day 5 – A Brutal Detour

The boys had decided they wanted to hit the trail early—eager to get home at a decent hour. I set an alarm for 5:45 a.m., and by 6:00, everyone was up and moving. We packed quickly. In spite of fresh moleskin, adjusted packs, and carrying only half our usual water, the dominant theme was clear: soreness. Shoulders ached, feet throbbed, blisters whispered (or screamed) their discontent. But we were ready to finish what we’d started.

We took our final trailhead photo and set off into the soft morning light. The same fire that had scarred Forsyth Trail had also touched this section—but differently. Where that slope had been raw and exposed, this one was laced with lavender and wildflowers, hinting at renewal. Young trees had begun reclaiming the land, nourished by river water and shaded by surviving elders. 

In Lost Valley, the wetlands shimmered with life—saplings pushing upward, birds darting from branch to branch. And through the clearing, Half Dome kept watch, framed by a uniquely unobstructed view now that so many giant conifers were gone.

As usual, I was the last to arrive at our first rest point. The bugs were back in force, buzzing and biting with their usual persistence. My shoulders needed a break, but instead of urging everyone to press on—as I had in the past—I simply sat. I let the bites come while I quietly chewed on a snack and took in the moment.

After a brief break, we continued down the John Muir Trail toward the valley. We were close now, and the thought of cold drinks and burgers pushed us forward. Around us, a new crowd filled the trail—day hikers bound for Half Dome, some wearing flip-flops and carrying nothing more than a small water bottle. We, sunburned and trail-worn, must have looked like ghosts from a different world.

At Nevada Falls, we stopped to take in the view—but the fatigue had dulled our awe. I raised my camera, but the boys’ faces said it all: we were spent. From there, we made a fateful decision. Instead of continuing on the JMT, we took the Mist Trail to shave off a mile. It seemed like the right call at the time.

It wasn’t.

The Mist Trail descent was brutal—tight, crowded, and steep, with endless granite steps pounding tired knees and blistered feet. I sweat more on that descent than on Day One’s climb. My legs burned. My shoulders ached. My body protested every jarring step.

At the base of Vernal Fall, we exhaled in relief—finally, downhill to the valley. Or so we thought. As we passed Emerald Pool, we spotted the detour signs. The Mist Trail was closed further down, and we’d have to backtrack uphill along the Stock Trail to reconnect with the JMT. What was supposed to be a gentle descent had turned into another uphill battle—1.5 unexpected miles and nearly 500 feet of new elevation gain. Our shoulders dropped. Our spirits dipped. Burgers would have to wait.

Moments before we realized the detour

But the end was near. As we rejoined the JMT and began the long, gentle switchbacks toward Happy Isles, our pace quickened. The boys darted ahead while I limped along, my heels screaming, the blisters now raw and untreated. I passed the natural spring near the trail’s entrance, rounded one last bend, and finally saw the trailhead—and the boys, waiting. My middle son clapped, rallying the others, and ran to hug me. I had nothing left. Still, I urged them to strap their packs on and walk the final 0.4 miles with me to the car.

We reached the parking lot. I dropped my pack.

Finished—in more ways than one.

We loaded our bags into the car and made our way to Curry Village for our long-awaited smash burgers. I stopped at the store for beer, sports drinks, and something sweet. Moments later, we were all seated, sipping and chewing slowly, as if we’d never eaten or drank before. We sat in silence, letting normalcy settle back into our bones.

Before leaving, we stopped by the ranger station to report our bear encounter in detail. The bear team called before we even reached Highway 99. I described the entire episode from Day 2, sent photos, and answered every question. The ranger was appreciative—we had clearly documented something rare and serious.

We pulled into my driveway just before the sun set. Families, including Edgar and one of his sons, gathered for pizza and photos, sharing stories, comparing sunburns, and trying to put words to what we had experienced.

Even now, weeks later, I can’t fully explain what changed in us. The aches have faded, but the impact hasn’t. The trip fills my heart—not just with happiness, but with something more enduring. The mountains didn’t just offer beauty. They offered truth. Truth about effort, struggle, reward, and perspective.  Just as the trails gave us ups and downs, so to this trip, the challenges merely complemented the beauty we experienced, adding contrast and perspective that allowed those moments to pop and stand out in my being.

This trip was Schrödinger’s backpack—simultaneously the hardest, worst, best, and most soul-affirming backpack I’ve ever done.

Day 5 Stats: 9.3 miles hiked, 2,060 feet of elevation gain, 4,413 feet of elevation descent

Yosemite Day 4 - Reality Catches Up

 Day 4 – Reality Catches Up

Despite the long day of hiking and our late arrival into camp, we woke as we had most mornings—roughly 30 minutes after sunrise. I unzipped my tent to find one boy already up, sitting quietly in a camp chair, enjoying the stillness. He was our lone coffee drinker, so I called him over as I boiled water for my own morning cup. We sat quietly, sipping as the others began to stir, one by one, emerging from their tents with stiff shoulders and sore feet.

The fatigue was beginning to show. My heels were tender, and the inside of my right shoulder was asking for mercy. We had nearly finished the 15 liters of water we’d packed the day before—or passed it along to Edgar’s group. The boys hiked the half-mile to the creek with two large water bags and returned twenty minutes later. I set to filtering as the rest of us broke down camp and repacked our gear.

The night before, on Clouds Rest, we’d tossed around the idea of spending today at a lake, followed by a short hike. With our newfound cell coverage, I mapped a potential route to Merced Lake, then back down the river to shorten the return hike home. It seemed like a solid plan.

We set off from the base of Clouds Rest along the Forsyth Trail. At first, the beauty of the towering conifers held us in awe. But then it shifted. Scattered burn scars soon gave way to a full-scale fire zone. From our perch the night before, we had seen the outline of the scar stretching east. Now, walking through it, the damage was overwhelming. Blackened trunks and fallen trees littered the trail. What began as the occasional charred stump became a full canopy of ghost trees. Chaparral had returned to reclaim the soil, but the grandeur was gone. The shadows of perfection still lingered, but the wound was raw. The sun was hot, and the silence felt heavier.

Yet, even among the ruins, beauty held its ground. Wildflowers bloomed defiantly. Bees flitted from petal to petal. A creek whispered through the hillside as we descended toward the John Muir Trail.

Still, the absence of old-growth trees, of the elders of the forest, was sobering. This place, like all beautiful things, is fragile. Yesterday was awe. Today was a quiet reminder of impermanence.

We joined the JMT and turned toward Echo Valley, passing a few fresh-faced couples just beginning their journeys southbound. After slogging through dense chaparral, the landscape shifted once again. The conifer forest returned. Shade fell across our shoulders, and the temperature dropped a few precious degrees. The trail came back to life—towering trees, granite ridgelines, a dense willow grove beside a pond where the wind rustled the leaves like wind chimes on a porch.

We dropped into Echo Valley and were immediately mobbed by mosquitoes. Just like earlier in the trip, I encouraged everyone to keep moving. Maybe we could outrun the swarm.

I scouted for potential campsites along the way, hoping we could pitch tents on our return leg. But this valley offered no reprieve. The bugs were relentless. Eventually, the trail opened to wide granite flats, and we heard the Merced River thundering nearby.

It was around then I noticed my middle son lagging behind. His face was clouded, his shoulders low. I asked what was going on—and he told me plainly, he was done. He wanted to go home.

I wish I could say I met him with calm and compassion. But I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. We’d already hiked over seven miles that day, and we were still deep in the wilderness—at least ten to fifteen miles from any road. My reaction in the moment wasn’t measured or thoughtful. I got angry. I was short-tempered. I hiked too fast, too far ahead, and lost patience. I yelled. And I hated that I did.

Eventually, I cooled down, and we all regrouped at a stunning cascade pouring into a natural swimming hole. We ate lunch, rinsed off, washed our socks. Everyone was tired. Going home the next day was now something we were all looking forward to.

A cascade just north of Merced Lake

Around 5:00 p.m., we began our hike downriver, following the Merced’s winding path. Other backpackers had recommended Bucknell Cascade as a good spot to camp. It would be several more miles—longer than any of us hoped for—but we pressed on.

The river itself was a balm for the spirit. At every bend, we were treated to postcard-perfect views: smooth granite shelves, deep green pools, tall trees catching golden light. If I hadn’t already logged nearly ten miles that day, I might’ve appreciated it more. But my heels were blistered, my energy drained. Unlike previous days, I stopped less often. I was just trying to make it to camp.

Even so, the Merced did its work. It filled something in me. The color of the water, the hush of wind through trees, the way stone and river seem carved by ancient hands—it reminded me that beauty doesn’t depend on my mood. It simply is.

We descended long switchbacks, each one pounding my feet and jarring my sore shoulder. I checked the map too often. Light was fading fast. We reached Bucknell Cascade just before sunset. My eldest, the fastest of us, had gone ahead and scouted potential campsites. There weren’t many. He suggested we push on to Little Yosemite Valley, another hour away—but I didn’t have ten minutes left in me, let alone sixty.

We made do with two small plots, pitching tents in the near-dark by headlamp. The roar of the river filled the air, drowning out all else. That night, sleep didn’t come easy. Wind knocked rocks loose, stirring me again and again. I was ready to go home. And the rest I was getting wasn’t going to be enough for what tomorrow would demand.

Day 4 Stats: 13.6 miles hiked, 1,331 feet of elevation gained

Yosemite Day 3 - Awe

 Day 3 – Awe

This morning unfolded with a kind of calm I always hope for on a backpacking trip. There was no rush. No alarms. Just the gradual stirring of people emerging from sleep as the sun warmed the granite. After the bear chaos of Day 2, our gear was spread across several locations—a well-intentioned precaution we’d later learn was exactly not how you’re supposed to store food in Yosemite.

We packed up slowly. What started as improvisation the day before had become a new rhythm: a quick snack in the morning and a warm “lunch” at our first real stop. Today’s plan was to spend some time at Sunrise Lakes before continuing on to the base of Clouds Rest. The cool morning air made for ideal hiking conditions, and the routine felt good.

As we hiked deeper into the backcountry, Yosemite continued to astonish. Every new ridge revealed another spectacular view. The day’s climb had some bite to it, but compared to the brutality of Day 1, most of us tackled the switchbacks with confidence and a bit of swagger. We passed a few backpackers wrapping up their trips and some ambitious day hikers heading to Clouds Rest.

At the top of the switchbacks, the trail split: one fork led to Sunrise High Sierra Camp, the other to Clouds Rest. Months earlier, a friend had told me Upper Sunrise Lake was not to be missed. Lower Sunrise Lake, where we first stopped, was already gorgeous—peaceful and ringed by granite walls—and some of the boys were less than thrilled to climb nearly 400 feet more just to “see another lake.” But we pressed on.

Lower Sunrise Lake

The final climb, while modest in distance, felt steep in the growing afternoon heat. Still, the moment we arrived at Upper Sunrise Lake, we knew the effort had been worth it. Crystal water shimmered under the alpine sun. We dropped our packs at the shore and immediately set about filtering water and preparing lunch.

Upper Sunrise Lake

As the boys ate and rested, I wandered the lake’s perimeter. Along the edge, I spotted a family of yellow-bellied marmots darting in and out of boulders. I stood in awe of the stillness—the color, the light, the utter peace of it all. I hollered across the lake, calling the boys to join me. My voice echoed, a joyful sound bouncing back like a gift. I yelled again, just to hear it.

Eventually, the group rallied and hiked around the lake to where I stood. We snapped pictures in front of the impossibly vivid backdrop, everyone grinning wide, sun-kissed and slightly worn.

While preparing to head out, we filtered extra water—15 liters total—just in case our next site lacked a good source. It was then that we realized one of the Jetboils had been left behind at our last campsite. Of the three we had, it was the least critical to lose—but it had been borrowed, and replacing it wouldn’t be cheap. Still, we packed up and loaded the extra water into the fastest boys’ packs—and mine and Edgar’s—and headed back toward the trail junction near Sunrise Camp.

The extra weight slowed me down, and my mind drifted as I hiked. Then a satellite message came through. Edgar’s mother-in-law—also the grandmother of two of the boys on our trip—had taken a sharp turn in her health. We had known her health was fragile, that this trip’s timing was precarious. Now, two and a half days in, the message we’d hoped wouldn’t come had arrived.

At the junction, we regrouped. The boys continued on as Edgar and I processed the news. We agreed: let’s get to base camp, then figure out next steps. My mind was elsewhere, but even in that fog, the trail still stunned. A meandering series of ridges and dips revealed ponds, brooks, granite shelves. No trail in Yosemite, I’d learned, is ever just “up” or “down.” There’s always another surprise.

Another gorgeous pond amid our hike

When we reached the base of Clouds Rest, we got right to work—tents up, water filtered, dinner underway. The plan was to summit for sunset. As everyone ate, Edgar quietly decided that he and the boys would hike out that evening. A brother would pick them up the next day. We helped them re-pack, handed over spare snacks, and gave them hugs as they headed down the trail.

Hugs goodbye

The remaining crew readied for the climb. This time, no packs—just headlamps, water, and a snack. Clouds Rest tops out just shy of 10,000 feet, nearly 6,000 feet above the valley floor. We left camp with energy, carrying a bittersweet weight. Part of our crew was gone, but that old, familiar nervous energy—like on Day 1—returned.

The climb to the top

The trail wasted no time. The elevation gain was sharper than we expected, and we hiked with urgency, hoping not to miss the show. After about 30 minutes, we reached the summit—and the moment we stepped onto the spine of Clouds Rest, everything changed.

The view wasn’t just beautiful—it was transcendent.

Clouds Rest

Silence overtook the group. The once-chatty boys sat on boulders and stared into the distance, each wrapped in their own quiet reflection. It reminded me of the first time I saw the Grand Canyon, or the stillness of standing beneath a giant sequoia. This wasn’t just nature—it was something holy.

Eventually, conversation returned—playful, curious, full of awe. With surprisingly strong cell service at the summit, the boys FaceTimed friends, called their parents, texted loved ones. But for long stretches, we had the place entirely to ourselves.

As the sun began to sink behind the western peaks, I sat watching Half Dome glow in gold and listened as the boys talked about life. There’s something about walking for days, carrying all you need, reaching places only reachable by foot—it opens you up. They spoke about feeling small, and lucky, and connected. How could anyone own this place? How could anyone not protect it?

Each of them, whether religious or not, felt it: this space was sacred. At 10,000 feet, far from city lights and buzzing phones, something in the soul quiets. As God’s most perfect paintbrush lit the sky in streaks of fire and violet, we sat in collective stillness—humbled, honored, full.

When the last light faded, we donned our headlamps and walked down slowly, each of us turning inward to process what we’d seen. Words failed. But we knew what we felt. The memory of that summit, of that moment, would stay with us—rooted deep in our bones.

Day 3 Stats - 9.8 Miles hiked 3014 feet of elevation gained

Yosemite Day 2 - A Rude Awakening

 Day 2 – A Rude Awakening

I woke at 5:45, just ten minutes after sunrise. It wasn’t cold outside, but the air held a bit of a chill. I lay still in my poorly pitched tent, relishing the quiet. No voices yet, no movement—just the sound of a waking forest. I stretched, took inventory of my body: feet good, knees intact, shoulders a little stiff but all systems go. A few minutes later, I heard the other dad unzip his tent.

Then—
“GO AWAY, BEAR! GET OUT OF HERE!”

The shout echoed across the hillside. I chuckled, assuming he was playing a joke to rouse the boys. I poked my head out of the tent to confirm the prank—only to find him dead serious. There, just yards away, stood an adult black bear at our cache of bear canisters.

“I’ll be right over,” I called, yanking on my clothes and shoes. One by one, the boys peeked out of their tents expecting a joke—and each face registered the same mix of awe and alarm.

For twenty minutes, we shouted, clapped, and waved our arms. The bear remained unimpressed. It wasn’t aggressive—just determined. It calmly tried each canister, nudging, sniffing, pawing. One boy fired up a speaker and blasted music, then animal noises, then even gunshots. But there’s no hunting in Yosemite, and this bear clearly knew it. A recorded gunshot was more curiosity than concern.

Edgar and I debated what to do. Call the rangers? Wait it out? We were mid-discussion when we heard a new sound: crunching. The bear had cracked a canister. I turned to Edgar and said what we were both thinking: “He has no reason to leave now.”

Panic wasn’t quite the right word—but urgency took over. Rocks were thrown. The boys shouted louder. Then some 15 minutes later, in a small cascade of miracles: Edgar lobbed a rock that startled the bear; the boys seized the moment and charged toward the canisters with me; the bear, briefly intimidated by our collective madness, retreated. We whooped and hollered, reclaiming our food bins like victorious raiders—but the bear wasn’t done yet.

As we packed up camp with military efficiency, the bear paced the outskirts, circling wide, scratching its back on a tree, watching us. If we stopped paying attention, it crept closer. Everything—tents, gear, food—was hastily stuffed into bags, and we hiked out, agreeing to eat breakfast a mile down the trail.

When we finally stopped at a trail junction, we devoured granola bars, took stock of our bear-induced food loss, and tried to shake the morning adrenaline. Within half an hour, the high had worn off, and reality returned—we still had a fair bit of hiking ahead.

We gathered ourselves: sunscreen, water, tightened laces. We wandered over to an overlook and took a group photo. Despite the chaotic start, Yosemite was still delivering the kind of views that stop you in your tracks.

We began our descent on the Snow Creek Trail toward the Sunrise Trailhead. The scenery was breathtaking—jagged granite outcroppings dotted with tall conifers, sunlight slanting across the mountain slope. It felt like hiking through a painting. Then the trail transformed again. The granite gave way to lush forest—shaded, cool, almost silent. The path was gentle, mostly downhill, and around each bend came new surprises: small ponds, flowing creeks, wildflowers, and towering trees.

Eventually, the trail brought us back to granite and sun, climbing gently toward Highway 120. Even mild elevation felt steep after the prior day’s exertion. But as we crested the hill, we were rewarded again—sweeping views of a surreal granite landscape, water pooling in cracks, trees growing improbably from stone.

We rested beneath the shade of a lone tree before the final stretch toward Lake Tenaya. The terrain shifted yet again—this time into a vast, sunlit meadow where Drew was already waiting under a tree. At the trailhead, we dumped our trash and the now-useless bear canister. Then we made a beeline for the lake, eager for cold water and rest.

The plan: cook a hot lunch by the lake, swim, rest, and hike again in the cool of evening. But backpacking plans are rarely plans—they're suggestions.

Drew was heating water when his Jetboil tipped, splashing boiling water onto his bare foot. His scream—“F***!”—echoed across Tenaya Lake. Concerned neighbors began packing up. Suddenly, the afternoon took a turn. Drew soaked his foot in the lake while the rest of us scrambled to finish lunch. I inspected the damage: blisters on his right foot, more mild burns on the left. We needed help.

Across the lake, I spotted a large group of families. I walked over and explained our situation. One woman perked up—she’d suffered third-degree burns before and carried prescription burn cream in her med kit. Perfect. I jogged back, treated Drew’s feet, and silently hoped this wasn’t the end of the road for him.

Thankfully, spirits lifted. The boys splashed in the lake, played games, and made the most of a hard-earned break. We scouted a nearby camping spot and cooked dinner lakeside.

As the sun dipped behind the granite peaks, we walked about 30 minutes to our site—a broad granite basin, dry now, but likely a pond in the early spring. Each of us found a patch of dirt among the stone. The boys leapt across boulders, played cards, and laughed under the fading light. My body felt like it had lived four days in one—but it was, undeniably, another unforgettable day in Yosemite.

Day 2 Stats: 6.29 miles hiked, 1,171 feet of elevation gained

Yosemite Travel Log Pre Travel and Day 1

 Before the Backpack Begins

In March, it hit me: the window for outdoor adventures with my kids might be starting to close. I do not believe it will end abruptly when my oldest graduates from high school or when my middle son earns his Eagle Scout rank.  But I know the ease of planning spontaneous hikes, camping trips, and backpacking weekends, something we’d done for the past twelve years, will start to fade unless I make a deliberate effort to keep those experiences alive.

Years ago, my aunt and uncle offered advice that stuck with me: When your kids are getting older, aim for big adventures—fantastic, bold trips—and they’ll likely want to join, even as they begin to step into adulthood. These kinds of trips can be expensive, but they don’t have to be. I began to wonder—could I combine a moonshot adventure with one of my own bucket-list dreams? That’s when it dawned on me: backpacking Yosemite.

I had camped in Yosemite a handful of times and done plenty of day hikes, but I knew that to truly experience its grandeur, we needed to shoulder our packs and head into the backcountry. That kind of opportunity, I hoped, would entice my sons to come along.

Unfortunately it was already March—far too late for prime summer backcountry permits. I turned to Recreation.gov, fingers crossed, and sure enough, options were slim. Most permits were already claimed, and the few that remained would not accommodate a larger group of friends or another parent. I’d have to take what I could get.

I knew I wanted to hike just above the valley floor, but beyond that, I was open. Then I found it: a trailhead that started in Yosemite Valley, fit our group size, matched my vacation schedule—but it just so happened to be one of the park’s most demanding routes. Snow Creek Trail, in two short miles the trail would gain nearly 3,000 feet of elevation.  While the trail checked a lot of boxes, it would not be an easy start.

With the trail selected, I had work to do in order  to complete such a challenging route. I joined a gym and began training on local hikes with significant elevation gains. Once I had our core group committed, I started ramping up our backpacking prep—testing my gear, breaking in my boots, and pushing my cardio with a few challenging outings alongside our Boy Scout troop. We were getting ready—not just for a trail, but for a memory we’d carry long after the packs came off.

T-Minus Two Days to Trailhead

A few days before our backpacking trip, the other dad, Edgar, suggested a great idea: let’s head up to Mammoth early and acclimate. So just before our adventure our group was off.

Our group? Two dads, two college guys, and four high school seniors—basically, two seasoned hikers and a pack of high-energy young adults. It was the perfect mix of experience and enthusiasm.

We set off from Southern California, road-tripping north toward the mountains. Naturally, we made a stop in Bishop at the legendary Erick Schat’s Bakkery, a century-old institution known for its sandwiches and Dutch oven breads. The boys were in their element—laughing, swapping stories, downing towering sandwiches, and releasing some of that buzzing, pre-trip adrenaline.

After lunch, we pushed on to Mammoth. As I pulled up to the condo, my phone buzzed. Edgar texted—his car’s check engine light had come on, and he would be making a quick stop at an auto parts store in town to have it checked. A few minutes later came another update: the car had overheated just before the Mammoth turnoff, about 15 minutes from where we were staying.

I immediately left to pick up the boys he was driving, ferried them to the condo, and headed back out to meet him at the car. We waited for the tow truck, then followed it all the way back to a mechanic in Bishop—just before they closed for the weekend. With limited options his wife would have to coordinate repairs from home while we disappeared into the backcountry.

Meanwhile, we needed a new plan. We booked Edgar a YART bus ticket, and I volunteered to carry the rest—literally. Seven boys, full gear, all crammed into my car. It wasn’t glamorous, but it would work.

That night, we carb-loaded in style: pasta, Italian sausage, and enough food to fuel a small army. I poured a glass of wine and watched as the boys devoured plate after plate, laughter echoing through the condo. Bellies full and spirits high, I turned in for the night, while they stayed up late, playing poker and savoring the calm before the climb.

T-Minus One Day

The next morning started early. I dropped Edgar off at the bus stop for his ride into the valley, and began our drive toward Yosemite. With each mile along Highway 120, the anticipation in the car grew. We stopped at Ogdens overlook, stepping out to take in the sweeping Sierra views.

By the time we reached Curry Village, the valley was already sweltering, flirting with 100 degrees. Our canvas tent cabins wouldn’t be ready for another four hours, so we set about checking in for our wilderness permits and grabbed lunch while we waited for Edgar to arrive.

As we sat in the AC of Deegans Deli, sipping cold drinks and poking at sandwiches, the energy was palpable. The boys were ancy with excitement—nervous, eager, ready—but the heat did a good job of slowing things down and reminding us that this adventure wouldn’t come easy.

When the tents were finally ready, the boys made a beeline for the showers, knowing it would be their last for a while. That evening, we had a relaxed dinner together—burgers, rice bowls, sodas, and chicken wings. The boys’ tent cabins were surrounded by a group of teens about their age, also on a Yosemite trip. Judging by the grins, our crew didn’t mind the company.

I turned in early, laying out my gear carefully for the morning departure. As I lay on a lone flat sheet, the air still warm and heavy, I put on some music and drifted off—grateful, excited, and just a little nervous. Tomorrow, the trail will begin.

Day 1 – The Wall

I wish I could say I slept well, but between the nervous energy, what I swear was a rodent chewing somewhere nearby, and some inexplicable 4:00 a.m. screaming, it was a rough night. By 5:30 a.m., the boys were knocking at my door, I was to wake them at that time. The group of co-eds camping near us had apparently risen early for a sunrise hike—which, suddenly, made their proximity far less appealing to the teenage members of our group.

We made our way into the village for final preparations: water bottles filled, coffee secured, and some mediocre sausage sandwiches heated up for breakfast. I loaded the gear into my car and dropped the it off at the trailhead, as they made the short walk in. After parking, I rejoined them, we took our obligatory “Day One” photo, hoisted our packs, and hit the trail by 7:00 a.m.

The first day was billed as the toughest—over 4,000 feet of elevation gain, with a particularly brutal stretch we came to call The Wall. As we reached the Snow Creek trailhead, the mosquitoes were out in full force. Boys scrambled to don their bug nets while I waited for our eighth member to arrive. The moment I saw him, I urged the group to get moving—motion, I hoped, would keep the bugs at bay.

The Snow Creek Trail doesn’t ease you in. It’s a south-to-southeast-facing ascent, meaning full sun almost immediately, and the trail launches straight into over 100 switchbacks. Rangers had advised aiming for a pace of one mile per hour would be quick—and I took that to heart. We hit The Wall about 45 minutes after we set off from the trailhead.

The hike is not all struggle and sweat. As you climb the granite walls, you’re rewarded with panoramic views—from angles of Yosemite Valley that rarely make it into guidebooks.

Though exposed in places, the trail winds through generous stretches of pine and cedar, with patches of shade that become small sanctuaries. I aimed for ten switchbacks between breaks, but if I’m being honest, it ended up being more like “every shaded rock that could support my pack.” I tore through my snacks and nearly drained my water. My eldest son raced ahead and, while I couldn’t match his pace, I was proud of my own 2-hour-and-15-minute climb to the top.

When I reached Snow Creek, I was officially out of water and ready to rest. I kicked off my boots, soaked my feet in the icy creek, and began filtering water. My son was already there, resting in the shade beneath a tree. Over the next two hours, the rest of our group trickled in—along with two recent high school grads from Ohio on a senior trip. We chatted, went over maps and routes, and watched the boys recover in the creekside shade.

After a good rest, we hiked—mercifully without packs—to the overlook. At just over 6,600 feet, the vista offered a unique and stunning angle across Yosemite Valley. The view alone made The Wall worth it. We took pictures, lounged in the shade, and soaked in the accomplishment before heading back to refill our bottles, grab our gear, and continue on.

While the mileage ahead was modest—just two more miles—our bodies had other plans. The combination of heat, fatigue, and a sudden absence of adrenaline turned a one-hour hike into a grueling two-to-three-hour uphill grind. Some of the boys were dragging, and one gratefully handed off his pack for the final quarter mile. To top it off, the seasonal creek near camp was too shallow to filter, so we had to backtrack nearly a quarter mile to find a suitable water source.

As we set up camp and began preparing dinner, a sharp CRACK rang out. Everyone turned. A blur of black and brown streaked right past our kitchen area. Some swore they saw three bears, others two—but either way, there was no doubt that a bear (or bears) had caught wind of the spam sizzling on the pan.

Though we finished our dinner, it was clear our initial camp layout wasn’t ideal, we relocated. Bear bins went one direction, and our tents a solid 100–200 feet away.

A small group hiked out again to gather and clean up water supplies while the rest settled in. By the time they returned—what felt like an hour later—my middle son had already set up the tent for himself and his brother and was sound asleep. In fact, most of the boys were out cold, thoroughly exhausted from a challenging but unforgettable day.

Day 1 Stats: 7.5 miles hiked, 4,535 elevation gained