Every time I open my mouth, I breathe in heavy sunlight. Having grown accustomed to the foggy June weather in San Francisco, the humid summer climate of Yosemite National Park hits me like a warm bath and my body leans gratefully into it as I lean into the mountain. We’re on day nine of a ten-day excursion through the mountains and across the valleys of one of the first national parks in the United States. We (Sam and I) chose the Glen Aulin Trail—which, by the way, means “beautiful meadows” in Gaelic and is not the name of an astronaut (like I originally thought). It is hard to imagine a trail more naturally surprising and serene. Our trek into McGee Lake yesterday was graced with brazen lupines bursting purple, magnificent sheer granite rock faces that remind me of the canvas of the moon or a whale’s smooth back, and enormous imposing sequoias. Tuolumne River, sometimes no more than a creek, has stayed by our side as a constant companion. Though we picked a fairly simple route, we have not been without spectacular views of the valley below.
After nine days of journeying, I am used to following horse dung rather than a map to show us the way. I now know to listen for the sound of a waterfall to determine our next resting spot. I’ve relaxed into allowing nature to define the beginning, middle, and end of the day, as I grow accustomed to falling asleep to the darkness and waking with the light. I’ve tried (unsuccessfully) to discover new constellations in a night sky filled to explosion with stars.
What I haven’t become used to is my traveling partner. I’m not sure I’d recommend a backcountry trip in the first six weeks of a relationship. Sam has seen me dirty, tired, whiny, wimpy, and, quite frankly, ugly. I have seen him bossy, competitive, impatient, and sometimes downright mean. I’m also not sure I’ve ever laughed so hard. We’ve helped each other perfect our handstands, wrestled a few mornings on the shores of Tenaya Lake, and made sure the other has suntan lotion in all the right places. He’s taught me how to fly-fish and how to cook a delicious meal over a fire without leaving a trace of crumbs behind for the animals. I’ve taught him how to whistle and how to climb trees. We’ve shared hours of stories on our hikes—about our families, our dreams, our fears. He’s great at telling jokes, and I’m a great storyteller.
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