Brooklyn had been 95 degrees and humid. San Francisco was 62 and breezy. Unprepared for the weather that was unimaginable in reeking putridity of the sewer of New York's summer, E scurried to Old Navy to buy pants. We hadn't packed any. Thankful for my cardigan, I shivered in delight, enjoying the breeze. I met Shane, my dear friend, for dinner at a pub near the airport. We picked up conversation like it had been days rather than months since we had enjoyed each other's company. It is a true and rare blessing in life to visit friends across the planet, and delight in their companionship.
The next morning dawned bleak and brisk. After a hefty breakfast in San Fran, we drove out to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Mist swallowed one end, the massive pylons disappearing on the other end. The wind whipped around us, and we marveled at the surfers braving the frothy waves breaking on the boulders at the base of the bridge.
Once we crested the hill, on the freeway heading east, the mist dissipated. The car slowly warmed so that within 10 minutes it was legitimately hot, and I squirmed out of my cardigan from my precarious position wedged in the backseat between two full-grown Aussie men. We sped through California's heartland, turning onto progressively smaller and smaller roads. Soon we were cruising along a backroad between latticed rows of plum trees, grapevines, green roses of lettuce neatly laid out in rows, and thick fences of corn plants. Lured by handpainted signs touting the luscious products, we stopped at a roadside stand and spent $10 on a bucket of strawberries, nectarines, apples, and pluots (a delightful hybrid of plum + apricot).
We continued east, and I noticed the railroads, humming east, bearing California's fruit to bodegas in New York and Philly. Ghosts of railroad towns and mining towns appeared on the horizon and vanished seamlessly, as if they had never been there. Wide golden fields gave way to evergreens and hills. By the time we got to Sonora, where our hotel was, we were in the mountains. I could smell juniper on the air, and it reminded me of being at my grandmother's house as a child - I wanted to bottle the air, keep it, infuse my being with it.
After checking in to our hotel, we continued east, snaking through the mountains to enter Yosemite. It was beautiful, but then we got into the park and rounded a bend to see Yosemite Valley and the Halfdome majestically in front of us. We all gasped, and immediately pulled over to snap pictures and revel in the dramatic valley gorge just off the road.
Entering the park at dusk was incredible because the crowds were gone for the day with their mewling infants and supersized cars and trailers. We almost had the place to ourselves, with its towering canyon walls with El Capitan and the Halfdome's smooth, incredible rockface and the rest of the canyon walls craggy, shadowy, mysterious. The valley floor was carpeted in the lush green of summer, and dragonflies and butterflies flitted and roamed the array of wildflowers. We passed a bear fishing for his supper in the glacial Merced River and watched the moon rise over the Half Dome.
It was balm to a soul aching for Western skies after too many seasons of manmade canyons.
