Sunday, June 12, 2016

Yosemite's Forgotten Land: Hetch Hetchy




We have dubbed this Rainbow Bridge.

Jody and Lucy cross one of the bridges at Wapama Falls.
Story and photos by Elliott Almond
YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK -- Rugged and spectacular Hetch Hetchy is so far off the beaten path many outdoor enthusiasts have no idea about its important contributions to America’s national parks system.
Which is odd considering it’s tucked into the northwest corner of the park about an hour’s drive closer to the Bay Area than precious Yosemite Valley. Hetch Hetchy receives a scant percentage of the scores of visitors traveling to the Valley, a drive-by tourist playground to snap a pretty camera phone photo.  

As we traced ancient footsteps of the Miwoks, Paiutes and Washoes peoples on a recent all-day trek toward Rancheria Falls, I began to wonder if the careless destruction of Hetch Hetchy Valley in the early 1900s somehow has preserved its solitary state.
Jody and Lucy scramble up stone steps.
To be clear, local backpackers are attuned to the splendors of this granite-strewn arena judging by all of their parked cars on a recent Friday. But most of the 4 million-plus visitors jam their clammy bodies and sports utility vehicles into the Yosemite Valley floor 15 miles to the south to enjoy an outing as unremarkable as a backyard barbecue.
Might a similar scenario have unfolded had the Hetch Hetchy Valley been preserved by naturalist John Muir and others who tried to stop the damming of the free-flowing Tuolumne River from 1901 to 1913?
I’m not one to advocate that a massive engineering project in a national park is good natural resource management. But I just wonder what it would look like today under a preserved state when seeing families linger on 430-foot O’Shaughnessy Dam that created the eight-mile Hetch Hetchy Reservoir so San Francisco could get a nice glass of water.
Much has been written about the political struggle to save Hetch Hetchy, a name that is said to derive from the Miwok word “hetchetci,” or edible grasses. Muir’s forces eventually lost out to human greed in 1913 when Congress passed the Raker Act that allowed San Francisco to effectively blanket the glacial-carved valley with water.
It proved to be a defining moment in U.S. national park history. It helped spur the environmental movement as the Sierra Club gained political strength over the ensuing years. In 1968,  environmentalists used the destruction of Hetch Hetchy to help halt the building of 740-foot Hualapai Dam in an isolated section of the Grand Canyon.
In other words, the rival to Yosemite Valley might have been sacrificed for the future betterment of America’s most cherished natural wonders.
We’re left to let our imaginations run free while traversing Hetch Hetchy’s stone cathedrals.
Some have described the dam and reservoir as a “scar” on the national park system. I cannot find argument with their disdain. The Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne River once flowed into the gentle valley. The reservoir dramatically altered the landscape.
Wapama Fallas from the east.
Lovely forests on the trail.
Granite dome called Kolana Rock
But our trio of hikers got past the disgust one, long day to explore what’s left. As those experienced backpackers can attest, Hetch Hetchy still has much to offer with waterfalls spilling over granite rock or seemingly flushing straight out of the mountain with a misty roar. Towering 2,000-foot granite dome Kolana Rock is perhaps the most prominent natural piece that rises above the water across the reservoir.
A majority of the day-use visitors stop along O’Shaughnessy’s concrete overpass to take a photo of the reservoir, or peer over the edge at the impressive dam walls and spurting water of the tamed Tuolumne. Many also make the rocky five-mile roundtrip hike to Wapama Falls, the swirling, gushing cascade of water that guarantees trespassers will get wet.  
My companions Lucy DiBianca and author Jody Berger (Misdiagnosed, One Woman's Tour of--And Escape From--Healthcareland) marveled at the continual sight of water and the changing biology of forests as we huffed our way up hundreds of feet after the low point at Wapama Falls.
The 13.2-mile round-trip path to Rancheria Falls hugs the mountain while climbing and dropping steeply above the reservoir.
We had agreed to a destination of Rancheria, which would take us deep into the Hetch Hetchy backcountry without breaking our backs or wills. It came with a caveat: We’d head back whenever it seemed right. The warrior mentality of having to complete a certain amount of miles is the antithesis of exploring nature on its terms. Author Bill Bryson got it right in his seminal book “A Walk in the Woods,” about hiking the Appalachian Trail. You don’t have to cover every inch of the 2,160-mile path to earn a Merit Badge. Just tread respectfully and appreciate the surroundings.
Spring hung in the dry air with meadows covered in blue dicks, buttercups, Indian paintbrush,  larkspur, poison oak and yarrow, among other species of beautiful flowers. We found a rock perch just before Wapama Falls to stop to nibble on the usual offerings of the Trailmix Gods. Cousin Lucy

Scenes of 8-mile Hetch Hetchy Reservoir that once was a beautiful valley.
 did her best elementary school teacher pitch to get us to sample a bag full of banana chips.

After refueling, we navigated a series of foot bridges underneath Wapama Falls while getting drenched in a freezing spray of water. Lucy, the Girl Scout, was smart enough to cross the threshold with a poncho. But it wasn’t so bad for Jody and I. The late spring sun helped dry our clothes quickly.
Afterward, when heading up for the more arduous section of trail it grew serenely quiet. No other day hikers encroached past the Wapama bridges.  Finally, two women backpackers from Bishop, California, caught us on the dusty trail. The older, presumably the mom to her slender teenage daughter, just got targeted by a local gang of bloodsuckers. The amenable woman seemed particularly sensitive to the native insects as the area just under her right eye began to puff into a dime-sized raspberry tart.  This was not a good sign for a twosome undertaking the adventurous Laurel/Veron/Rancheria 30-mile loop. They planned to spend two nights out in Yosemite’s northern wilderness.
I found some antiseptic pads in my emergency kit to apply to her face and some extra for the next round of mosquito assaults they might encounter over the coming three days. The exchange led to an informative discussion about hiking trails in the drop-dead gorgeous Eastern Sierra.
Lucy, our inquisitive companion, has a way of bringing out fascinating stories in people.
“Did you see the poop on the trail back there?”
Yes, the women saw it.
“Do you know what it is?” Lucy inquired.
They weren’t sure.  
It was big, and for whatever unknown reason I kept saying black bear scat is smaller. Something about some scat I once saw years ago hiking at Mt. Rainier National Park.
“Maybe it’s a mountain lion?” Jody asked.
By the time we shook hands and bid our adieus we decided the only creature capable of delivering such a healthy amount of disposal must be a bear, since confirmed by photos found in a Google search.  
The idea of black bears roaming the Hetch Hetchy seemed troublesome to the women. I couldn’t understand why because they indicated they had been climbing and hiking in the rugged Bishop area for some time.
This wasn’t a family outing so I didn’t have time to tell the women my bear story from my last visit to Hetch Hetchy.
That time four years earlier I was alone in the evening and under a time constraint to meet Lucy and some friends at White Wolf to began a weekend trip hiking Yosemite’s High Country.
I encountered a buck on the crumbly trail while returning toward the day-use parking area next to O'Shaughnessy Dam. Such a strange sight. The healthy buck stood frozen in the center of the trail, a wall of granite on one side and the reservoir on the other. The mighty deer looked at me. Then he looked behind him. He turned to face me yet again. I took off my cap and used it like a matador’s red cape.
“Come on, then,” I said. “This is your home.”
I stepped off the path as much as it was possible. The buck didn’t need a second invitation as he galloped past.
I continued in his direction because it was the only route to my car. As I came to a bend in the trail I could hear a commotion on the other side. For some reason, still unclear to this day, I thought it was another deer. Of course, that is absurdly ridiculous. Moments earlier a big buck decided it was safer to scurry past me rather than risk dealing with whatever was in the bush making the racket.
Yet, there I was thinking about sneaking up on the animal -- a deer -- to surprise it. Just as I stepped around the bend my better sense took hold. I pulled out my emergency whistle as the bear materialized no more than 100 feet away.  I blew a forceful tweet. Mr. Bear didn’t care. He continued his business of foraging in the woods between me and the path to my car.
The first twinges of dusk began to bathe the landscape in that unforgettable light. I had to do something. I began singing my go-to song, “I’ve been working on the railroad,” with the lyrics, “Dinah won’t you blow your horn.” OK, I cannot sing. But my audience of one black bear gave me not one notice no matter how long and loud I sang and blew the whistle.  This is a real problem in the wilderness when bears become habituated to humans. It ultimately endangers the animals.
Finally, this one scrambled back up the mountain from where he came, opening the path as I blew past like the buck.
I ran into a couple on the other side and warned them about the bear.
“Yeah,” they said in unison. “We heard your signing.”  


Monday, May 23, 2016

San Francisco Bay hiking: Sweeney Ridge



TOO often we overlook the bounty in our backyards. It’s probably the result of the natural cycle of life, getting so immersed into the routine that it becomes difficult to hit the pause button to glance around at the wonders beyond the porch.
My friend Don Carroll had the most potent antidote for the malady of routineness. He preached to his beloved wife Joyce and their children a simple, yet elegant, sermon: “Look how we get to live today.” Yeah, look at them mountain biking, surfing, snowboarding, creating a slice of paradise in their Santa Cruz Mountains home. To the end, Don constantly reminded his loved ones to grab hold and cherish everything near and dear.
We certainly enjoyed the precious moments of hiking and biking among the redwoods and mossy rocks and surfing along the craggy Central Coast.




I thought about all those fabulous times on a chilly late May day while embarking on a head-turning hike in the Sweeney Ridge section of the Golden Gate National Parks. The slender finger of scrub-covered wilderness points its windswept tip toward crowded Daly City and San Francisco in the near distance. But up here on the hilly ridges and ravines, it’s easy to ignore the teeming humanity that has covered the landscape to the north.
The network of trails here have one particularly quality: visitors get vistas of the San Francisco Bay to the east and the mighty Pacific to the west. This is as close to a manageable bay-to-sea hike as there is. Starting above SFO in San Bruno, I traipsed up the eastern rampart overlooking San Andreas Lake and the Diablo Range of the East Bay in the distance. Once at the summit take a short diversion trail to the south to visit the historical stone marker citing the location of the first-known view of the bay by the Portola Expedition. It’s called the San Francisco Bay Discovery site. The Ohlone People, however, might question the distinction as they knew about the massive bay for years and years before the Spaniards “discovered” it.



Heading north along the ridge the trail descends sharply after one mile into Pacifica’s Shelldance Orchid Gardens before crossing Highway 1 to the terminus at Mori Point.
The ridgeline is about 1,200 feet in elevation so don’t worry about oxygen deficit. But expect some thigh burners if Mori Point or the western park entrance is the turnaround destination. It’s an unrelenting climb back to the ridge along a shadeless, stony path.
The east-to-west trail ends at the sea, but it’s still some distance to Pacifica’s commercial areas to the north and to the south. So pack a lunch instead of planning to find a nice seaside cafe, as appetizing as it sounds.

San Andreas Lake


Pacifica Pier juts into the ocean just beyond Highway One.




Friday, February 26, 2016

Surfing at the Eddie big-wave contest in Hawaii

Dave Wassel (right) and Aussie Ross Clarke-Jones going for it.
Copyright WSL/Keoki

The attraction of big-wave surfing has as much to do with its rarity as its race-car thrill rides.

It takes some kind of natural turbulence in a far away body of water to create the kind of momentum needed for a huge groundswell by the time it collides with land masses in its way.
Grant Twiggy Baker of South Africa is captured in risky tumble on 45-foot wave.
Copyright WLS/Heff
This winter of El Nino weather patterns has offered one of the most memorable surfing seasons in a long while. It has brought a bountiful harvest to the famed big-wave locales, where fearless watermen and women dance across supercharged walls of water.
Two weeks after a successful run at Mavericks near Half Moon Bay, California, the granddaddy of big-wave contests unfolded at Waimea Bay on the North Shore of Oahu.
The Eddie Aikau invitational went off for the first time in six years, and only the ninth occasion in its 31-year history of an event less a competition than a celebration.
Waimea is the original big-wave locale, but it takes just the right swell -- direction and size are integral factors in whether it's worthy -- before surfers paddle into the pit.
Thursday produced one of those epic days
It proved chaotic for the competitors who risked life and limb to charge into the watery forest. Like at Mavericks two weeks earlier, the event experienced its share of spills and chills, and eventually was won by the new generation surfer.
Hawaiian John John Florence, 23,  rode four big ones to collect a score of 301 points. He and runner-up Ross Clarke-Jones of Australia overtook Hawaiian legend Shane Dorian in the final heat. Dorian ended third whereas the Michael Jordan of surfing, Kelly Slater, finished fifth.
Legendary Kelly Slater on a clean monster at Waimea Bay.
Copyright WSL/Keoki
The fascinating aspect of big-wave surfing is the age disparity among competitors. Clyde Aikau, whose brother bears the contest's name, is 66.  Clyde was 20th out of 28 competitors. Australian Tom Carroll, 54, was 27th.
Clyde is a constant reminder of what big-wave surfing is all about, what his brother Eddie was all about: sharing the passion of the ocean lifestyle.
"We are humbled and privileged," Clyde Aikau told reporters afterward.
Eddie Aikau was known as a waterman's waterman. The Hawaiian lifeguard patrolled the shoreline of Oahu’s North Shore to keep others safe, then tested the boundaries by paddling into the biggest waves when Waimea awoke from its long hibernation.
In 1978, Aikau met his death on the high seas while trying to trace the 2,500-mile route of Polynesian ancestors from Hawaii to Tahiti paddling a hollowed out voyaging canoe. The canoe got a leak in one of its hulls and capsized in turbulent seas about 12 miles from the island of Molokai. Aikau, 31, mounted his surfboard to paddle for help. His body was never found. The rest of the crew, though, survived after getting rescued by the Coast Guard.
The big-wave contest began in 1984 to honor the Hawaiian legend. Surf clothier Quiksilver took it over in recent years to provide an ample prize purse for competitors. Florence won $75,000 for his four massive waves.
But everyone came away with a victory because no matter how big the purse is, no matter how much media attention the contest generates, its heart remains with Eddie Aikau.

Winner John John Florence takes off deep, with Mason Ho. Florence, 23, won the Eddie on Thursday.
Copyright WSL/Keoki



James O'Brien and Shane Dorian share the power.
Copyright WSL/Heff