The Yosemite Adventure

Perhaps we should have been warned by the tent incident. "What, that tent?" you're thinking. "That sorry excuse for a tent that looks as if a simple breath would knock it over, much less a stiff breeze?" Exactly. That's exactly my point. Surely you didn't think that two such stalwart and intrepid explorers as ourselves -- oops, wait -- I didn't introduce my companion, did I?

Alex Lamb, whom you'll meet very shortly, was one of my classmates at Clarion West in '97. Frankly, he was much more the intrepid explorer-type than I. He climbed volcanoes for fun. And to be honest, most of the time we were at Yosemite, I was taking pleasant watercolor classes while he stomped ruggedly up mountains. He was rough. He was tough. He had planned the entire trip, and packed all the supplies. Alex knew exactly what he was doing.

Well, except for the tent. See, we'd set out all happy from Oakland. Whizzing cheerfully along the highway to Yosemite, chitter-chattering. Pointing out scenic bits as we went, such as the wind farm (I had never seen such a thing before. Giant windmills that looked like something out of a rather low-budget sf epic, spread out along the low hills), and catching up on all the gossip. Driving through charming little towns, and then up steeply winding mountain roads. Noticing how the pleasant May air was getting just a little chilly. Wondering if there would be snow at the campsite. It was about three hours out of Oakland that Alex remembered the tent.

Or more precisely, didn't remember the tent. Didn't remember packing it, to be really really precise. I tried to reassure him that it was almost certainly there, and in any case, it was too late to do much about it. There'd probably be someplace to buy a tent up there. Right? He was too busy working himself into a state to be calmed down (yes, even rough, tough explorer-types work themselves into states sometimes). Finally we pulled over on an itty-bitty mountain road and checked the trunk (or boot, if you prefer. Alex is a Brit). No tent.

It had been a beautiful tent. A beautiful, expensive, state-of-the-art tent that he had just bought up in Seattle for all the camping he planned to do while wandering through the U.S., visiting all his old Clarion chums. We mourned that tent.

To make a long story slightly less long, we did eventually get back in the car. We drove onward. The sheer beauty as we entered Yosemite did raise our spirits a bit. Waterfalls to the right of us. Waterfalls to the left of us. And ahead of us -- could it be? Yes! A store! Where I dug into my little store of funds, and bought us a tiny, yet serviceable tent.

In case you've gotten lost in all the persiflage, let me offer you another look.

There was snow on the ground, and truly it was a marvelous tent. It never did stand up quite straight, though by the second night, it had stopped falling in on us in the middle of the night. And it gave us confidence in our ability to adapt. Foolhardy confidence, perhaps. Let me tell you the rest, and you can decide...