Yosemite's Four Mile Trail

With my valve job scheduled for the end of August, my thoughts naturally turned to the Yosemite trails. Yosemite National Park’s 1200 square miles are crisscrossed by 800 miles of maintained park trails. I have hiked about 600 miles of those trails, so I searched my mental inventory for a scenic trail which my heart could handle. I settled on the Four Mile Trail, which, in my opinion, mile for mile, step for step, is the best trail in the park.

Built in 1878 by James McCauley as a toll trail, the Four Mile Trail ascends 3200 feet from the Yosemite Valley floor to Glacier Point by 59 switchbacks, varying in length from 12 feet (No. 18, counting from the gate at the bottom of the trail) to about a mile (No. 7). The trail was riginally 4 miles long, but in 1923 the National Park Service realigned tt to lessen the grade, resulting in a present length of 4.6 miles. The former name remains nonetheless.

Some parts of the old Four Mile Trail can still be found, although now overgrown by nearly 100 years of vegetation. 130-year old dryrock walls, reminiscent of the dryrock walls in Britain, still line the trail’s former switchbacks. For scenery, nature and history the Four Mile Trail can’t be beat. It is my favorite trail in the park, as my car’s license plate attests.
 
The trail not only offers jaw-dropping views (a trait common to most Yosemite trails), but with its diverse vegetation changing both by season and elevation, the trail presents a new experience on every hike. The lower part of the trail passes though old, stately oaks interspersed with dogwood, whose lovely white flowers harbinger the coming spring, and alders, whose golden leaves in autumn glow when backlit by afternoon sunshine. A little higher, the manzanita’s delicate pink flowers in springtime upstage its polished, brick-red branches so coveted by decorators. In late summer, the manzanita’s flowers mature into bright red berries on which bears feast by the bushel. At the trail’s highest elevations, pine and cedar provide both shade and fragrance on a hot summer day. Stellar’s jays, finches, grouse, woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks and lizards are commonly seen along the trail. Less often, deer, bear and bobcat show themselves.

At Glacier Point, the Four Mile Trail connects to the Panorama Trail, which in turn connects to the John Muir Trail, providing a 16-mile loop with 4500 feet of elevation gain and loss—completing a perfect training day for Britain’s End to End Trail.

I typically hike the Four Mile Trail a dozen or more times each year, and until May, the trail always provided new and different joys. In late May, hiking the trail became less fun as I struggled to reach a point about 2/3 of the way up (2,000 feet of elevation gain), beyond which the trail was closed due to snow. In early June, I could ascend only about 500 feet before my heart stopped me in my tracks; in late June, I could barely ascend 100 feet. The Four Mile Trail had become something more to me than a joyous walk through the forest—like a miner’s canary, it provided an early warning of my failing heart valve.

Alas, I am presently unable to ascend from the valley, but my heart is strong enough to do the reverse. So, today, Janet dropped me off at Glacier Point. While she took the hour’s drive to Yosemite Valley, I visited with my good friend Ranger Dick, one of the few Yosemite rangers fortunate to reside at Glacier Point. At 9:30, I started the descent, and at the same time, Janet began ascending from the valley. As expected, we met halfway—descending the steep trail requires sure footing, and always takes as long as ascending.

As always, the Four Mile Trail was in shade, but typical California sunshine bathed the rest of the park. Temperatures in the Yosemite Valley were in the mid-80s. Yosemite’s famous waterfalls, which run full force in May and June, have faded to a trickle. By September, many of them will be dry.

While not my typical Yosemite hike, getting back on the trail allowed me to clear my lungs and revitalize my spirit; or, as John Parsons might say in his Lejog Plod: yes, it was another good day.

© 2010 Ken Klug

Pt. Lobos, California

With temperatures in Yosemite Valley approaching the high-90s (35 C), and my heart not wanting to climb to the cooler elevations, I decided that hiking on the California coast would be a reasonable substitute. California is a lot like Britain, with ample coastline and mountainous interior. Except that the California mountains are higher, the sun always shines, and drivers keep to the right (i.e., correct) side of the road. Sometimes.

Pt. Lobos is a State Reserve on California’s central coast south of Monterey, not far from where the Pacific tectonic plate dives under the North American tectonic plate. As far back as I can remember, the colliding plates have been uplifting granite which was formed deep under the earth’s surface 80 million years ago, juxtaposing it with younger and shallower sedimentary formations. All the while, relentless ocean waves erode and shape the rocks into various forms, leaving numerous secluded coves, cliffs, and beaches. These conditions are unique on Earth, except for all the other places with rugged coastlines, such as the British Isles. Britain also has pubs and castles along its coast. California never needed castles, because it has no pubs worth defending.

Just a mile north of Pt. Lobos, the ocean depth reaches 1,000 feet. It is scientifically possible to measure the depth in meters, but you need a long yard stick to do so. The Monterey Canyon, lying just 6 miles offshore, reaches a depth of 7,000 feet. (I think that’s something like a million fathoms, but I’m not exactly sure what a fathom is.) The upwelling of nutrient rich waters from such great depth creates a food chain which supports a diversity of marine life visible from the trails: harbor seals, sea lions, elephant seals, sea otters, gray whales, cormorants, pelicans, gulls, and fish of all colors and sizes. You can also view the marine life by scuba diving, but be sure to bring along a can of great white shark spray so you don’t become part of that food chain. Hint: If you are diving at Pt. Lobos and there isn’t any marine life visible, you aren’t exactly alone.

There are eight miles of trails in the reserve, winding through thin forests of Monterey Pine and Monterey Cypress which thrive in the coastal fog, but which would wither and die in the sunny, hot savanna a mere mile or two inland. Also thriving in the fog are lizards, rabbits and deer, along with the occasional mountain lion and rattlesnake whose main job is to keep the lizards, rabbits and deer alert. I’m told that mountain lions prey only on the old and the weak, a fact which presently causes me some concern. For the first time in my hiking life, I’ve become part of the balance of nature.

Off trail excitement is provided by the most plentiful shrub in all of the reserve: the ubiquitous poison oak. It also thrives in the fog, but like most Californians, it really wants to be in the sunshine. So although the shrub is rooted in the off trail underbrush, it has an uncanny ability to extend its long, sweeping branches into the one sunny spot not overgrown by competing vegetation: the trail. Generally, its branches reach out at waist level, ready to fondle the bare arm of a passing hiker. But to keep things interesting, an exceptionally low branch occasionally strikes out at the hiker wearing shorts, or a strategically placed high branch assists in wiping the sweat from your brow.

The effects of coming into contact with poison oak are not felt immediately. Usually, an itchy red rash develops in a few hours, turning to an oozing, blistery mess that spreads over the skin in a day or two. But that’s not all bad, because focusing on the rash will invariably lead you to discover the ticks you picked up while on the trail. Poison oak is nature’s way of protecting you from Lyme disease.

After a day communing with nature at Pt. Lobos, I’m ready to face anything.  My anything will be meeting with the cardiac surgeon in a few days to schedule the valve job.

© 2010 Ken Klug

Brokenhearted

In January I was found to have a leaky heart valve. The cardiologist thought it could be treated by a few pills. That didn’t surprise me, because I had entered that decade of life where a daily regimen of pharmaceuticals becomes the norm. Despite the intake of pills, my activities have continued unabated – I work out on the stair climber or treadmill at the gym regularly, and I continued to snowshoe, hike, or cycle every weekend. I wasn’t particularly training for the End to End walk – it’s just what I do.

In late May, I was back in Yosemite for a week of hiking. It was great to be on trails that I hadn’t seen since last fall. But the trails that had previously welcomed me – indeed, had pulled me – now repelled me. I made very poor progress, even while the trails lured other hikers who streamed past me. It was as if Yosemite was jealous of my plan to trade its charms this summer for those of another. Hiking in Yosemite is not for the faint-hearted – trails are long and steep: 2,000 – 5,000 feet elevation gain for a typical day’s hike. Stretches of a thousand feet of gain per mile are not uncommon. But for the first time ever, the trails rejected my every advance. I attributed my heavy breathing to a recurrence of asthma.

I visited my doctor for a prescription to control the asthma, and he sent me back to the cardiologist, who sent me to a cardiac surgeon. I met with the surgeon yesterday, barely a week before my scheduled departure to Britain. It seems that the minor valve leak has worsened. Rather than pumping all of my oxygenated blood through my aorta for circulation to working muscles, my heart is pumping a large volume backwards through my faulty mitral valve. Although not yet at a flow to distract the BP engineers from their current project, the leak means my heart is functioning at very low efficiency.

The cardiologist said the condition will not improve on its own, but there is no present emergency. My strong heart muscle is presently capable of allowing me to lead a normal life – a normal life of shopping at the mall, watching TV, and stamp collecting. But extraordinary activities such as mountain climbing or marathon running cannot be supported by the leakage. If I were to engage in such extraordinary activities, my leaky heart would have to work extra hard to oxygenate working muscles, resulting in an elevated heart rate, ending in failure. Although I didn’t ask where he thought the End to End walk fell in the ordinary/extraordinary scale, he predicted that I had a zero chance of completing the walk under present conditions.

It appears that my choice is between dying of boredom and dying of a broken heart. Boredom can’t be fixed. But my heart’s valve can. Analyzing the problem with the usual risk/reward assessment on which I base virtually all of life’s decisions, fixing the valve sooner rather than later appears to be the right choice. The surgeon did not disagree, because he would rather repair a valve in a strong heart than a weak one, and my heart would probably atrophy if I were to start collecting stamps. Besides, his oldest child is entering college next year and he has tuition to pay.

So it is with great sadness that I must postpone my long anticipated End to End walk until next year. I know that my dashed dreams of doing the walk this summer are minor in comparison to the dashed hopes that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people experience every day, but I am broken hearted nonetheless.


What was intended to be a daily blog of my journey through Britain will temporarily be transformed into a series of periodic reports on the progress of my recovery after surgery – likely to be scheduled in a month or so. For those of you who would rather follow the reports of a JOGLER, tune in next year – same time, same place. In the meantime, I’m hoping that Yosemite will forgive my infatuations with another and welcome me back soon.




© 2010 Ken Klug

Islands

The late A. Wainwright commented that he especially liked the English Coast to Coast walk because it had a definite beginning and a definite end. It was that simple explanation that made me understand why I enjoy walking across islands. In the Sierra Nevada, I’m never quite satisfied. No matter where I am, no matter how spectacular the scenery, there always comes a time when I must stop and turn around. I must retreat. I must deny myself the opportunity to explore further. If only I could see over the next ridge…. And the one beyond that. There’s no satisfaction in turning back.

Ah, but there is magical satisfaction in walking across islands. I start with my toes in the ocean, turn 180˚ and walk until my toes touch water again. There is a sense of accomplishment. No retreat. And since I’m a walker and not a sailor, I’ve gone as far as I can possibly go. There’s nothing left to explore.

But what am I exploring? I could see much the same scenery through a vehicle windshield. Not totally the same, mind you, because legs can travel to places where tires cannot. But sometimes I walk along the same paths that vehicles follow. So, it’s not the scenery that I’m exploring.

It’s the people. You can’t meet people when moving along inside a metal cocoon. Motorcyclists know that. Motorcyclists waving to one another seems universal – a fleeting moment of contact with a fellow traveler not normally experienced from a car. But it’s still a fleeting moment.

Walkers have time to chat. Meet a fellow walker on the trail, and a simple greeting as often as not turns into a 5-minute conversation. Sometimes longer. And for the long-distance walker, the conversational opportunities multiply with folks met in pubs, B&Bs, or campgrounds. When we walk we explore not only the land under our feet, but the people we meet.

The solo walker is an island in the sea; isolated, but not lonely. Like islands everywhere, we are constantly swept by waves – waves which, grain by grain, deposit experiences and expand our personal shores. And as we explore geographic islands, we discover more about the islands we are ourselves.

The Decision

I love to walk, and I love to walk long distances even more. My long distance resume includes Wainwright's Coast to Coast in England, the West Highland Way in Scotland, the Irish Coast to Coast, and the Shackleton Crossing of Antarctica's South Georgia Island -- the latter being only 25 miles, but the most difficult trek I've ever done. When not on a long distance walk, I train in Yosemite National Park. You can't find a better playground than Yosemite, and it's in my own backyard.

So why would I trade a summer's hiking in Yosemite for a walk in Britain? I had narrowed my summertime hiking holiday to two alternatives:

1. Walking the world famous 210 mile John Muir Trail -- whose start in Yosemite and finish on the summit of Mt. Whitney are both within a few hours' drive from my home; or

2. Walking the lesser known (at least in the U.S.) 1200 mile End to End Trail from John O'Groats to Land's End -- from the northeastern tip of Scotland to the southwestern tip of England.

To decide, I weighed the advantages of JOGLE against the disadvantages of the JMT:

Advantages of John O'Groats to Land's End:

• Summers in Britain are less dry
• No dust on the trails
• No real mountains
• Midges are small
• More beer in a pint
• A 3-month holiday from work

Disadvantages of the John Muir Trail:

• Rain gear goes unused
• Some trails may have snow
• At least 50% of the trails are uphill
• Bears are large
• No pubs
• A 3-week holiday from work

So there you have it. Stay with me over the summer, and find out if I made the right decision.
Email me at My1200milesummer@gmail.com

My Yosemite backyard: