A blue feather caught my eye, so I stooped to pick it up and continued down the trail, twirling it between my fingers. I was temporarily entranced by its simple beauty, which is how I came within striking distance of one extremely unsociable rattlesnake. The hissing of a hyperactive rattle burst into my consciousness, and I jumped back when I saw the diamond-shaped head cocked and ready to strike. As usual, that was too close. The intolerant creature glared balefully at me from the side of the trail, then turned and slinked down into the brush, giving its tail one last violent shake before it disappeared. Well, I didn’t know there were rattlesnakes in Yosemite National Park, but I do now.
I paused near a bend in the trail to collect my wits and take a sip of water. As I rested, a new animal poked its head around the corner to take a look at the backcountry visitor – a baby black bear. The curious cub lifted its nose in my direction a few times before becoming brave enough to venture forward a few steps on its oversized paws. Eventually, it thought better of itself and retreated around the bend. I set down my water bottle and swiftly tip-toed to the corner with my camera, but the cub had already vanished!
Searching failed to determine where the baby bear could have hidden so quickly, but it made me aware of the many features along the trail that could conceal an angry mother. In the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne, nearly every tree and boulder was large enough for a bear to hide behind, and there were other cubs I encountered that day which probably had parents foraging nearby.
Despite the dark clouds gathering overhead and the ripped-apart pine cones which spoke of greater dangers, I was thoroughly enjoying my journey up the canyon. Rounded towers of granite rimmed the valley, their faces chipped away by frost and thaw over millennia until the mountains looked like half-finished ice sculptures. Streaks of orange and black minerals dripped down from cracks in the rock. And waterfalls poured their contents into a succession of swimming holes along the valley floor.
Only one other factor was disturbing my enjoyment of Yosemite’s grandiose scenery: the pain emanating from my two big toes. 4,000 feet of descent on the first day of this backpacking trip had jarred my toenails to the point where they felt half-unglued. I failed to notice the problem until the following morning, when the slightest stubbing would leave me practically hopping on one foot. I had to flex my toes sometimes to make sure my toenails were still attached. Bandages helped, but I had to be cautious; I’ve never lost a toenail in all my years of hiking, and I wasn’t about to start now.
A late afternoon thunderstorm caught me before I could find a suitable campsite, and I spent too much time beneath trees and overhangs, getting chillier by the minute. I found a dry spot to pitch my tent, but my reward of a refreshing pre-dinner dip in the closest swimming hole was a disappointing and unbearably frigid chore. Still, when the clouds cleared and my blood rewarmed, I realized that I had stumbled upon a remarkably scenic campsite, complete with my own personal waterfall. It was sweet consolation to a weary hiker with aching feet.
I returned to civilization the next evening, but after taking a day of rest for the sake of my beleaguered toenails, I found myself once again in the wilderness, backpacking this time in the windy, lake-studded Ritter Range, south of Yosemite. The nights were growing longer and colder, so much so that the ground itself often froze and pushed up wedges of ice, which would melt in the morning sun and sink back into the soil. On the third day, I reached a paved road, hitchhiked back to my Jeep and then drove to a campground with free showers fed by actual hot springs.
With an unlimited supply of heated water at my disposal, I felt truly and justly rewarded for all my hard work in the backcountry. I also had a chance to examine my mistreated toes again. The two big toenails were a colorful collage of yellow and purple blotches, but I didn’t suspect they were likely to fall off anytime soon, as long as I was careful.
The day was ending, so I drove up the rocky San Joaquin Ridge road and searched for a campsite where I could see the Minaret Peaks of the Ritter Range at sunset. At around 10,000 feet of elevation, I noticed grinding sounds coming from the Jeep engine. Then I hit the brakes, because I realized the gear stick had tilted to the right all on its own. First gear was now where third should be, third gear was where fifth should be, and fifth gear and reverse had fallen completely off the face of the earth. Lifting the hood revealed a lopsided engine. The bumps and vibrations of countless off-highway miles had taken a cumulative toll, shearing off half of the bolts holding the engine in place. It looked like big, expensive trouble.
My Jeep and I limped down to an open meadow along the ridgeline, and I parked facing downhill, 2,500 feet above the town of Mammoth Lakes. If my engine failed to start in the morning, I hoped I could at least coast my way down the dirt road, for I didn’t think I’d be able to persuade a tow truck to come up here and get me. And if I had to walk all the way down to the valley floor … well, then I could probably kiss those precious toenails goodbye.

Bryan is a 1991 Norwich High School graduate and works as a naturalist at the Rancho Alegre Outdoor School in Santa Barbara, CA. You may reach him mid-journey at foolsby@hotmail.com.