So Glad You’re Not Here

The house was soggy from the rains. The kids were bickering violently over which violent cartoon to watch next. The dog had devoured another pair of boots. The Sunday morning talkers wouldn’t stop talk, talk, talking about Pete Wilson and The Presidency. And there was the dismal prospect of more Kato ahead. All in all, a perfect time to head for the proverbial hills.

Now, the Yosemite Valley typically is no place to come on a whim. Most of the year a reservation at the Awahnee Hotel--which, as the T-shirt says, is my idea of roughing it--requires a one-year head start, a tag team of travel agents and congressional connections. Happily, this is no typical time.

Yosemite is between seasons. The winter wonderland is melting fast and the popular spring riot of waterfalls and blossoms is a week or two away. Also, kids are in school, while the adult world toils to pay off Christmas in time for taxes. Who has a weekday for big rocks and babbling brooks? Sunday we called up here to see if they had rooms. They had rooms. In fact, the only thing doing at the Awahnee was a convention of community college administrators--one definition of the off-season slows.

So we packed. We packed parkas, gloves, earmuffs, boots, long underwear, flannel shirts, sweaters, sleds, pocketknives, snowsuits--all that great winter gear Californians accumulate on the off-chance they might actually be used one weekend out of the year. Then we packed ourselves into the family four-wheel drive, suspecting there might for once be a need for four-wheel drive. There had been a big storm the week before. We were prepared.

*

Of course the roads were clear, the skies were clear, and we should have brought shorts. The hardest part of the journey was unloading the car. We settled into a room with a view of Yosemite Falls and awoke Monday morning to the sound of a big animal singing. The kids had found Barney. We turned off the television and ventured into the great outdoors.

Snow was scattered across the valley floor. In one patch we spotted a bear paw print. We also saw three deer, multiple squirrels, two foxes, one coyote and the melting remains of a half-dozen snowpersons. Overhead, the waterfalls literally were cracking to life, noisily hurling down chunks of ice along with the water. It was brisk early, warm later: We shed layers of clothes in rhythm with the rising of the sun.

Even in an off-season, Yosemite can deliver remarkable sights. The wildflowers might not be in full display, but there are other wonders to see, treasures rarely witnessed in peak seasons. For example, open parking spaces. And short food lines. In its relative emptiness, the valley floor seems a different place from what is visited in those hazy, crazy days of summer. It becomes easier to fathom why 4 million people honk, shove, kick, jam and cuss their way into the park each year. Their instincts are correct. It’s timing they lack.

We encountered what seemed a higher percentage of foreigners--Swiss, Japanese, Germans, Italians, New Yorkers. It reminded me of a trip last August through Death Valley. The place had been full of Germans in jeans and bandannas, happily roaming the fiery desert on huge motorcycles. My hunch is that our visitors are on to something: The way to do California, Californians, is when everyone else is doing someplace else. Admittedly, there are dreary obstacles like school and work to negotiate. I’m told a sore throat is easily faked.

*

In the afternoon I went on a nature walk with Ranger Bob. A squat man in full uniform, he looked as though he’d just tumbled out from a Yogi Bear cartoon. In the summer, these tours never seem worth the bother. Too many loud shorts and sharp elbows.

There were 20 of us, and the ranger made everyone welcome. He chatted with the Germans about German mushrooms and praised the Swiss for their way with nature. He told us many fine things about trees, geology, Indian massacres, bureaucrats and bears. The only glitch came when he unwittingly led us behind a big cedar, where the startled Swiss children stood, pants down, answering nature’s call.

“Uh,” Ranger Bob said, “let’s turn around and study the meadow some more.”

Back at the hotel, I found the kids napping, television off. I went outside, sat down alone by a creek, stared up at Half Dome. A cloud blew against the great granite face. Trees waved slowly in the afternoon wind. The only sound was of running water. Five minutes of this was all it took. As often happens here, I got what I came for in one quick, quiet moment, and the rest was just logistics.