A Collection of Events from Yosemite
After I left San Diego, I marked out a kind of tour of the United States. The plan was to move North along the California coast via Highway 1 starting in San Luis Obispo, move North to Spokane and then break East back across the Northern portion of the United States before heading south through Cincinnati to Nashville. I wrote it down, calculated the cost, repeatedly looked at my bank account with chagrin and set off.
Instead of the California coast, I ended up meandering inlnand towards Yosemite National Park to attempt to recreate a photo taken in 1979 by a photographic idol of mine, Stephen Shore.
This was all fine and dandy and involved me driving around the park like a crazed lunatic with a folded page torn from a book bearing Shore’s photograph, asking people if they knew where the photo was taken. Most seemed to not know or care.
Somewhere within the depths of the park, I spotted a chapel. There was an old pickup truck parked out front and an older man with a white beard was driving an even older lawn mower around the chapel grounds.
I pulled up, waited until the man turned off the mower and approached him, photo in hand, to ask if he knew where it was taken. He took the photo from me, glanced at it quickly and noted that it was a bridge, just down the road. Now, he said, I owed him a favor. Help me push this mower back into that shed over there. Gladly.
As we pushed the mower, I learned a few things. Firstly, the chapel was the oldest building within the park, and secondly, that the man pushing this lawn mower with me into an old, rotting shed in a tattered white t-shirt and ragged blue jeans was the pastor.
Later that night, I wandered into Mariposa, California, a town just outside of Yosemite. After getting off the phone with a friend who called me to tell me he had just proposed to his girlfriend (he was still awaiting an answer, don’t think he ever heard back), I walked into a sports bar at the end of the small downtown strip.
I saddled up to the bar and ordered a beer and a burger. The Giants were on and I rested my eyes there.
Some time passed and an older man sat down next to me. He too had a white beard, but with a gruffer demeanor to compliment it. Looking at me sideways, he asked if I was old enough to drive. I truthfully responded that I had been driving for almost 8 years now and he turned to one of the bartenders talking authoritatively about how to deliver the plates to customers. I took it that this guy owned the place.
Despite the initial gruffness, I learned his name was Robert, and we settled into a nice conversation ranging from difficulties with his son who had PTSD and was once a renowned rock climber to more arcane matters of the soul. He began to expound on places on Earth he had encountered that were his ‘strong’ places. Places where he felt connected to the universe. One place he mentioned was beneath a cold waterfall somewhere in the park. I remarked that my cold waterfall was my cold shower in the mornings.
Our conversation trailed off as I had nowhere to sleep that night and needed to find shelter before the werewolves came out. Robert got my email and promised to send me some recommendations for where to hike the following day.
Following Robert’s advice, I made the trek to Tuolumne Meadows in the Eastern part of the park. This was one of Robert’s ‘strong’ places and said it made for a great day hike. I believed him.
The trail led you through a lot of trees, opening up into a basin surrounded by mountains. It was quiet and peaceful and all the things you can say about being out in nature. Feeling small. In awe of its magnificene. How serene, placid and natural it all seemed. I sat there for a while.
On the way back, I looked up at one point to meet the gaze of one of Yosemite’s many Mule Deer. It’s antlers stood high above its head. Deer in the proverbial headlights, its eyes were wide. We stared at each other for a good ten seconds before he scurried off, and I tried to imbue the event with spirtual significance.
On the way back to Mariposa, I spotted a group of people with a flat tire by the side of the road. Being the good samaritan that I am, I stopped and offered my help. The driver, a man no taller than 5'4", asked if I could give him a ride to the nearest gas station. There was one just down the road, but undoubtably closed at this point. I agreed anyway.
As he was getting into my car, he grabbed the seat in order to hoist himself into the vehicle. Clearly not designed as a handle, the seat tore off the frame as he fell backwards into the grass, sheepishly holding the seat in his hand, he looked up at me and apologized. No big deal, I said, and reattached the seat as best I could, cursing my benevolence.
We drove to the gas station. I grew tired of the endless apologies and thanks and told him I had a meeting or something. Unprompted, he gave me $40 for the help and I drove on into the night, landing again at the sports tavern in Mariposa.
Before I could get to the bar, Robert hailed me down and told me he had to talk me. We walked down the small Mariposa strip, and Robert told me that our conversation the previous night had shook something in him and made things clearer with his son. I didn’t speculate what this meant and offered that I had found God in the eyes of a Mule Deer. We parted ways as Robert’s wife asked him to go on a walk with her.
As I left Mariposa, I wondered how I would ever tell people about this weird menagerie of events. Why does this collection of events stick around so vividly while other, more exciting, more brag-worthy events fade?
Who knows? Maybe God was in the eyes of that Mule Deer.
