January 24, 2004
Yosemite Day 3
After I showered in the morning I wandered over and got more towels from the morning staff. They too were a dingy gray (the towels, not the staff). I asked if they had any white towels (politely not asking if they had any clean towels) and the very pleasant woman working the desk said they are all that color, and it's because they were off-white to begin with. Now, I've never heard of a hotel using non-white towels, although I'm sure if you're spending enough per night they'll give you any color towel you want. Regardless, the towels looked filthy, which is as good (or, rather, bad) as being filthy. She said the white towels were in the maid's closet, and she can't find anybody with a key. Happily when I returned that night my room had been made up, complete with clean white towels.
I went out Highway 120N in the morning, with the goal of exploring the closed-for-the-season Tioga Pass Road. When I got there I found a big sign across the road declaring it closed to all traffic, but the road beyond the sign was plowed and mostly free of ice. So I pulled into the parking area and readied my mountain bike, with the intent of riding off down the road. Almost immediately I relearned a lesson that I seem to unable to recall without a painful reminder -- when I haven't been riding a bike fairly regularly my ass feels like it's bruised when I get on a bike the day after a ride. On a positive note, I soon discovered that the road was in fact only plowed as far as the Yosemite Institute, and thereafter was covered with a couple feet of snow.
I rode back to the car, almost wiping out once on the little ice that was available, and reprepped to go walking on the closed portion of the Tioga Pass Road. Somewhat foolishly I hadn't hopped off my bike and stomped around on the snow to see if it was walkable or not. Off I went, and this time fate was with me -- the snow was pretty densely packed, or at least had a hard crust on the surface which would often support my weight. On the occassions when I punched through it I rarely sank more than an inch or two into the snow. Thus walking down the road was somewhere between completely normal and the tiring crush-crush gate of walking down a soft sand beach. I got a mile or two out and was starting to appreciate how tiring walking on the stuff was, as well as regretting not having pursued a snowshoe rental of some sort. As I gathered my thoughts I was passed by an elderly couple on cross country skis. Since I was standing no more than 20 feet away from them in a neon yellow windbreaker I would have expected some look of recognition, but they just skied on by. I've never cross country skied, but it seems to me it must be awfully tiring. Is there some trick to the gait so that your legs are doing most of the work? Or are you doing a great deal of it with your arms?
When I returned to the car I had some coffee I had brewed that morning at Hotel Hate. I had only made half a pot, assuming that might make the coffee (from their pre-measured filter pack) halfway tolerable. Wrong, still weak as dishwater. Next time I'll try a quarter pot.
From there I drove down to the valley floor with no particular agenda. I parked with the intention of hiking around a bit, and ultimately ended up walking around for far longer than I really wanted to, between taking one detour and another, and then finding myself much futher away from where I had parked than I really intended.
I left the park pretty early and was back at the hotel at 3pm for a shower. I was kind of disappointed to not have done more with the day, but that was soon to be made up for.
I headed out 14oW to go to the quite satisfactory Charles Street Dinner House for dinner again. It was early, and my plan was to find detours along the way to explore. The first stop was a mammoth complex in El Portal that looked from the road like a prison or perhaps a government research lab, except there wasn't enough visible security. Turned out to be an administrative building of some sort for Yosemite. The real find was Foresta Road, which is the same road I was on yesterday, except the other end of it!
First I turned left down the road and followed along the river bank for quite a while, paralleling 140W. The road was a little over a car width wide, and whenever two cars met there was a minor production of making space for each other. I was surprised to pass two cars going the other way on such a dinky road. I went through the dismal town of Cranberry Gulch and eventually the road ended at a closed gate marked "Authorized Vehicles Only". The road beyond the gate was no longer paved, but it had a thick and fresh appearing bed of gravel on it, so I assume it gets used by someone for something.
I then doubled back and turned right where I had turned left before. This rapidly put me on the actual Foresta Road, which was even narrower than the road I had just been on. I followed it for quite a while (well, a comparatively short distance, but it was hair raising because it was densely populated, full of hairpin turns, etc.) and reached another sign just like yesterday -- road is unmaintained, not safe for travel, extremely steep grade, the bridge is out, there's no gas available, etc. etc. etc. It looked passable enough, but I knew from yesterday that it would get much worse, and it would ultimately end at a closed and locked gate, so I'd just have to turn around and come back out.
I drove back out to 140 and continued West. The whole time I was driving I had one eye on the other side of the river, and I could see the gravel road (the one behind the "Authorized Vehicles Only" gate) continuing on. Eventually the gravel gave out, and it was just a grassy cut into the side of the hill, but it still looked quite passable. Then I started noticing further problems with the road -- trees down across it, major washouts, etc. So now the gravel road is a mystery -- what does it provide access to?
All this is going through my head when I simultaneously notice a guy wire of some sort stretched across the river, along with a house on the opposite bank, and a Subaru wagon parked at the near end of the wire. I made a U-turn and doubled back to park at a geological point-of-interest marker. I returned on foot to the Subaru with my camera and GPS in tow. To my immense surprise there was a 3/4" steel cable strung taught across the river, and at the far side of the river I could see a platform suspended from the cable. A tow rope completed the river traverse. There was a deck on the other side of the stone guard rail on the near side of the river where you could embark and disembark from the shuttle. Presumably the owner of the Subaru parks it there and the traverses the river to get to his home! Around the house I could see probably a half dozen pick up trucks and vans parked here and there. They could have driven down on the opposite side of the river, but from what I had seen thus far it looked like a tough row to hoe, so I was guessing they drove up from downstream somewhere.
As I stood and crouched at the side of the river three dogs appeared on the opposite bank and started making a terrific racket. I don't know if they just caught sight of me and got excited, or if their owner caught sight of me and sent them out to dissuade me from the trespassing I was considering.
I went back to the car and continued on 140W, keeping a very keen eye on the road along opposite bank of the river. If anything the road was in much worse shape the further downstream I went. It was clearly impassable, as the small bridges that had once crossed gullies had been almost totally removed, leaving only their footings. I don't know what's going on there -- it's almost like that house has purposely isolated itself -- it has an enormous grade behind it, two access roads which are probably only passable on foot, and the Merced River as an impressive moat in front of it!
I carried on further down 140 and encountered another river crossing! This one had the shuttle parked on the near side of the river (indicating the owner wasn't at home I suppose?) and rather pointedly locked up. A U-lock through each pulley insured that the carriage would have to be dragged to get it across, and a further cable fastened it firmly to the bank. Interestingly, the moorings for each end of the steel cable were clearly footings from a bridge that used to cross the river at that point. I'm not sure where all these bridges have gone. I can imagine that a bridge might become old and unsafe and the county/state/whoever might decide it wasn't worth maintaining, but wouldn't they just put a gate across it? I can't imagine them going to all the effort of physically removing the entire bridge, save the footings. Very strange.
There was a house at the far side of this crossing as well, albeit even more decrepit than the previous. Moreover, the access road on each side of the house was clearly impassable! Unless there is a secret tunnel through the mountain or the FedEx man is a dedicated mountaineer, I don't see anyway that anybody is getting goods or services in or out of that house without using the traverse. Must be interesting to get a major appliance or furniture delivered. Perhaps they contract the Marines to come with a helicopter?
Went yet further down the road, watching the trail on the opposite side of the river deteriorate further and further until, lo and behold, I found a bridge that crossed the river. Of course it was much too far for the bridge to be of any use to the "traverse" homes, but it did give me a way to get back to the access road. The bridge features an admonishment to drive no faster than 5mph and that only 1 car should be on the bridge at a time. With that to look forward to I parked on the near side and walked over the bridge, which I could feel gently bobbing up, down and around to whatever was perturbing it. On the far side I saw that the access road along the river had a gate across it, although this time without any indication of the "authorizated vehicles" requirement.
Rather than walking down the access road I headed up the dirt road which seemed to be winding up the mountain for no particular reason. I kept expecting to come around a corner and be face to face with Skeeter's Moonshine Factory or Waingro's Meth Lab, but every turn of the road just brought more road. Eventually I had to call it quits so that I'd get back to the car with some semblance of daylight remaining. Consulting my Garmin Vista I was surprised to discover that it not only knew of the road, but actually was willing to admit its name! Because I bought the "Topographic" version of MapSource I get almost no road names at all -- I get the roads, just no names. So this road being named is tantaamount to being an interstate!
It would be passable in my car I think, although perhaps foolhardy. Once again I found myself wishing I had a Jeep. I left thinking about returning to it the next day and walking it much further, although I guess the mystery was gone once I knew it wass a proper road, etc.
From there I got back on the highway and finally got to the Charles Street Dinner House for another very nice dinner. While I waited for my food I read the introduction to "The Continental Op", a very interesting essay about Dashell Hammet by Steven Marcus. Assuming the guy isn't full of it, he confirms my longstanding suspicion: when I read a book I may enjoy the story and what-not, but I'm generally missing the point. Or rather, I'm reading at a comparatively superficial level.
Then again, to extract the sort of detail and meaning that Steven Marcus was extracting would seem to require a great deal of study, and I can't imagine laboriously poring over a novel like that. Probably one of the many differences between Steve and I.
It's now after dinner, and I'm typing this back at Hotel Hate. The drive to Mariposa is 30 miles or so, which is an unpleasantly long distance to begin with, and is made doubly so by the twisty mountain road those miles follow. Then again, as I remarked to the hostess when she asked "Oh, back again?" -- "I've eaten at the Cedar Lodge, and I don't care to repeat it."