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