Life...Over A Cup: Yosemite Day 2

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.