Life Seasons in the Sierra Nevada

Posted by Interdisciplinary 6 - The Sierra Nevada

March 27, 2007

An essay by Patti Murphy

Tiny Granite Creek Campground is tucked away in the Minarets Wilderness Area, south of Yosemite National Park and southwest of the Ansel Adams and the John Muir Wilderness Areas. Its 7,000-foot elevation always ensured at least a 15-degree cooler temperature than the sweltering summer heat at our home in Clovis, northwest of Fresno. On a weekend in early July, the campground would fill up quickly, so my husband and I would pack up our cabover camper and head to the mountains early on a Friday morning.

On this particular July weekend, another couple planned to join us there. The details of the two-hour drive from the many times before and after this trip will forever be embedded in my memory. The truck air conditioner ran full blast as we traveled from urban sprawl past rolling hills, orchards, and grazing land toward our mountain retreat. As the truck engine worked harder to climb the grades, the taste and smell of the air changed from the stale, agricultural-infused smog of the San Joaquin Valley to crisp, pine-freshened, breathable air that made the body rejoice. We’d roll down the windows as the air cooled and follow the narrow paved road through switch-backs, past trees that clung to the edges of white granite cliffs, past fields where lone oaks stood as sentries, past dense copses of pine trees that would suddenly give way to sprawling green meadows split by streams.

Eventually, the paved road ended. We followed the dirt road the last few miles to the horse camp and the entrance to the campground. On that Friday, we arrived in time to secure the best site: the one at the far end of the campground with trees perfectly spaced for my hammock. Just a few yards away and down an embankment was Granite Creek. On this particular July weekend, water splashed over the rocks and, at its deepest, came to mid-calf, perfect for scrambling over and having splash fights.

To me, camping in the Sierra Nevada has the power to strip away the trappings of so-called civilized life—phones, television, the confinement of four walls of home and work--and bring to the forefront real living: being close to nature and sharing the experience with friends and family. I believe the soul cannot flourish without regular doses of fresh air and sunshine. So, our weekend itinerary consisted of hiking in the forest, rock climbing, wading in the creek, lounging in the hammock, and preparing food.

One evening, while the menfolk tended the fire outside, we women went inside the camper to prepare food for the flame. We discussed the most important matter for the summertime of our lives: babies. My friend knew that any day I’d be announcing that a baby was on the way. I told her I could possibly be pregnant at that very moment. She couldn’t make that claim, but hoped to be able to shortly.

Sometime after dark, as we chatted around the campfire, the air filled with a roar like none of us had ever heard before. The sound came from the direction of the creek. We grabbed flashlights and scrambled toward it. The creek, which earlier had flowed serenely through the campground, was now a raging torrent that threatened to overflow the banks. We later found out that a severe thunderstorm had ravaged the Yosemite area. It resulted in the flash flood we saw that night. We also learned that a hiker had been killed by a lightning strike somewhere near Half Dome. Amazingly, the sky over Granite Creek had been cloud-free all day and was now starlit. The smoke from our campfire rose in a nearly-perfect column in the still night air. By the next morning, the creek had settled, and we kept to our itinerary.

We two couples have since moved apart and haven’t talked in the years between then and now, and I suppose you could say we’re in the autumn of our lives. That July, I was indeed pregnant, and early the next spring I gave birth to twin daughters. That summer, the Sierra became part of the beginning of two lives and the end of another. When I recall that trip, I wonder about the hiker and if he realized the end—in a way, the winter--of his life was at hand. With each year that passes, it’s more apparent that our winters could be upon us at any moment. But, no matter how many seasons pass, when I imagine myself in the Sierra Nevada it’s always summer.