Liquid and Light

I've been stuck for weeks trying to figure out what to write about for my next blog post. This is not to say that I've done nothing worth writing about - a succession of house guests have inspired numerous adventures in Yosemite Valley, including a hike to the top of Yosemite Falls and two visits to Mirror Lake. But for some reason, each time I pondered how to write about these experiences, I could not capture them in words.

Six weeks overdue on my monthly post, I tried this past week to write about other topics that have been on my mind lately - the one year anniversary of our move to Mariposa, or maybe my desire to see Yosemite Valley from a different perspective by exploring the legends that inspired the Native American names of its iconic landmarks. Each of these essays faltered due to the complex nature of human interpretation. I view my beloved new hometown through my own lens and do not wish to imply this as the truth for anyone else. A similar lesson applies, it turns out, for the history of Native Americans in this area. During my research, I learned that two different tribes claim the valley as their historic home. The park currently interprets one tribe's perspective, while the other feels slighted and fears their ancestors will fade into undocumented history.

I could not begin to untangle the complicated and often subjective truth of this dispute, so I decided to go back to the basics. Yesterday, I closed my eyes and scanned through the much loved photographs I hold in my heart as a reminder to never stop paying attention. Those images which resonated most involved both liquid and light, whose basic properties are taught in most science classrooms, usually as a stepping stone to more advanced theories and discoveries. And yet the delicate and ephemeral truths they reveal remind us of the beauty that can always be found in this world of often painful subjectivity.

What do I know to be true? That I unconsciously hold my breath when I stumble upon a perfect sphere of water clinging precariously to the surface of a petal. I pour over flowers drenched in newly fallen rain for those droplets that capture an inverted version of the world in miniature, the magic of light passing through a curved surface. I marvel at the jewel-like brilliance of resinous sap as it imperceptibly drips down the contours of a pine cone. I believe there are few things in this world more beautiful than dew drops suspended in a net of cobwebs.  

I scan the sky for arcs of color against billowing mounds of dark cumulus after a rainstorm. In the morning and evening I scout out iridescent sun dogs in the crystalline drops of water that form wispy cirrus clouds. This temporary separation of light into its bands of distinct color reminds me that there are yet more wavelengths I don't see. I cannot even fathom what it would be like to see the world from the ultraviolet view of a bee or the infrared glow of a python.

This spring in Yosemite Valley, I experienced the occasional miracle of rounding a bend in the trail on a clear blue day to see a rainbow emerge out of a waterfall's mist. One was so close I could almost reach out and touch it, but it always stayed one step ahead of me. I walked among the tall trees through this spray of moisture with the scent of bay laurel and incense cedar hanging in the cool morning air. Thousands of years of memory may be lost or misinterpreted in this place, but liquid and light always reveal their truth.

For the Birds

Puffy fair weather cumulus clouds dot the western sky as a glow of morning light spreads across the golden green meadow. The air feels cool and humid on the shady trail, but it is tinged with pronounced mugginess in the patches of sunlight - a sign that it will be another hot July day here in the Sierra Nevada. Hodgdon Meadow snakes along Old Big Oak Flat Road at around 5,000 feet above sea level, just inside the western boundary of Yosemite National Park. Ringed by stately evergreens and filled with waist high sedges and dense willow thickets, it is a haven for wildlife. Of particular interest this morning are the small winged aviators now gliding swiftly overhead and across the meadow in search of food and shelter. They fill the air with a cacophony of sounds - an undercurrent of warbles and chirps, overlaid by the melodious trill of a Pacific wren, and occasional punctuations of the Olive-sided flycatcher, “Quick, three beers!”. I’ve been invited by Sarah, a park biologist, to join her curious, energetic daughter, and a local volunteer from the neighboring community of Groveland for a site visit to a park project funded by a grant from Yosemite Conservancy. We are heading out to one of seven banding station where we will observe field technicians as they catch songbirds.

This delicate, diverse avian family has been known throughout history for its complex, inspiring vocalizations. In recent decades, however, songbirds have also gained recognition for their sensitivity to habitat loss. Significant declines in a variety of species have been documented, prompting scientists to take action. The Institute for Bird Populations (IBP) was established in 1989 to coordinate 500 banding stations to research and share information regarding the population and distribution of birds across the continent. This crucial long-term dataset looks not only at individual variables, but also the cause and effect relationship between them, making it a very power tool for scientific research.

When we arrive at the station, no one is around. A small black table is blanketed with papers, tools and writing utensils. Clothes-pinned to the length of one side of the table are small dangling cloth sacks. Some of the bags twitch sporadically, belying the contents inside. As the technicians make their rounds every forty minutes between seven different nets, they collect the birds that have become ensnared. A half dozen or more may be gathered during this time, so the cloth bags allow the birds to be safely transported and kept in waiting, until their turn to be examined. This state of suspension doesn’t seem to cause the birds too much alarm. Even after they are extracted from the bag, most are fairly calm as long as their wings are kept pinned to their sides. One exception are the Northern flickers, who vocalize a continuous stream of car alarm-like shouts while being handled.

Measure wing length, puff of air to the chest to check for body fat or a brood patch, puff of air to the skull to determine age based on the pattern of bumps that emerge as the cranium matures, spread the wings to look at feather condition, tip the bird upside down into a cylinder to keep it still while being weighed, all the while scribbling numbers and codes onto a data sheet. For all but the hummingbirds, look for a numbered band and if none is found, secure one to encircle the leg like a bracelet. After weeks in the field, this team works like a well-oiled machine. Questions and uncertainties are discussed and negotiated with the help of various manuals passed back and forth across the table. The slightest suggestion of curiosity by visitors is met with an assured, demonstrative response. It was explained to me by one of the technicians that each primary feather is assigned a number. Because juveniles and females are so similar in appearance, sometimes the only way to determine the exact species is by noting the difference in length between two particular feathers. I marvel at their capacity for attention to such nuances.  Sarah is clearly proud of the work they’ve been doing, and already wistful about losing her team lead, who was recently offered a position by the IBP to be a regional coordinator for independent field research teams.

The birds are examined with deft efficiency, and then carefully set free. After being restrained, some seem to forget that they know how to fly, and so they hold still for a moment suspended in time. At this point in the process, visitors are encouraged to participate. I am offered the opportunity to release an Anna’s Hummingbird, and suddenly a breath of feathers is slipped into my hand. I’m hardly aware of its physical presence, except for the warmth that concentrates and spreads across my open palm underneath its fragile body. I am coached to gently rock it back and forth onto its stomach, and with a few shallow bobs of my palm the sprightly bird elevates up into the air. The flash of movement and sudden pulse of wing beats against my hand cause me to gasp. I remember in that moment that it is possible to hear your soul shout for joy. I glance at my instructor and I see it in her eyes too – the childlike wonder of the moment when this wisp of bone, muscle and feathers manifests into pure grace. How privileged we are to be surrounded by such every day miracles.

One Day in Yosemite Valley

The view from above Yosemite Valley as you come out of the Wawona Tunnel is stunning. I mean take your breath away, jaw droppingly stunning. So much so, that all I could do was sit there on the edge of that stone wall and stare at the expanse of trees, shining granite monoliths and ribbon-like waterfalls that appeared before me. It felt like being in a dream, or getting a momentary glimpse of heaven, but each time I blinked it was still there in front my eyes. While it may seem like a dream from a distance, actually being in Yosemite Valley is very much a call to reality. A place this beautiful can’t help but become an international tourist destination, and so it has precariously taken on that role with a mix of grace and strain.

Yosemite Valley is a treat for all the senses. Verdant green meadows carpet the valley floor, making the contrast between the vivid blue sky and stark white granite domes all the more brilliant. Prior to park service development, the leisurely Merced River flowed freely and replenished the lush meadows by occasionally flooding. To reduce the potential for flooding, provide dry ground for camping and decrease mosquito populations, the river was forced into a more predictable pattern of flow and some of the meadows were drained during the first years of park development. Such changes cut off life sustaining water to these valley jewels and in recent decades, attempts have been made to reinstate more natural processes. Meadow drainage tiles have been removed and where possible, the river is being unbound and allowed to flow as it prefers. Boardwalks throughout the valley now intersect this reinvigorated ecosystem, allowing visitors to wander through the sea of green and more closely observe the scattered wildflowers, wetland birds and grazing mammals that live there.

Waterfalls in the springtime roar inescapably throughout the valley, booming and reverberating off the surrounding stone walls, making the undulating white columns of water in the distance all the more palpable. Humid sprays of water amplify the smell of the trees and soil near the falls, giving the air a saturated, fresh smell. Thousands of people wander around the Yosemite Falls area with their eyes cast upward in awe, speaking dozens of different languages, gesturing animatedly as they interpret the maps and educational displays that explain the beauty before them. The trail system around the falls recently underwent a major renovation to allow for better flow of visitors and reduce soil erosion resulting from overuse. The wide, paved trails now allow those visitors, both young and old, with less physical mobility to more safely enjoy the forested, boulder strewn landscape, and inspiring vistas.

By afternoon, the initial rush of excitement has mellowed and if you give into it, a growing sense of peaceful wonder will descend upon you. Sunshine washes warmth over every surface, while the cooling alpine breeze chases away discomfort. On the back porch of the historic Ahwahnee Hotel guests and passersby relax, while soaking up the ambiance and grandeur of the park reflected through the structure’s immense stone walls. Providing an interesting juxtaposition between refined civility and the wildness that surrounds it, the hotel was built in 1926 to attract wealthy patrons seeking relaxation and restoration. During WWII park tourist visitation decreased dramatically, but war weary soldiers found still found refuge at the Ahwahnee, which was converted for use as a military retreat. The architects took their design inspiration from the landscape and used locally sourced materials to increase the sense that this place is a part of, rather than an escape from, the natural wonders of valley.

Pensive photographers of all ages raise their cameras to frame shots, while plein air painters place their brushes with care in an attempt to capture a moment that will remind them when they return home, that this surreal place really does exist. Rock climbers laden with coils of rope, their steps accented by the clink of hardware on their belt, scramble over boulder piles leading to the base of El Capitan, Half Dome and dozens of other lesser known climbing walls for the thrill of merging with the geologic wonders of the valley. Thousands of cars squeeze into every available parking space, and in the afternoon fellow tourists on foot and bicycle shake their heads in amazement at the bumper to bumper traffic snaking slowly back home during the afternoon rush hour. If you are looking for solitude, this is not the place for you. If you want to see nature untouched by significant human development, there are plenty of other places in the Sierra Nevada to visit. But if you are looking for natural beauty of the kind rarely seen with such ease, and the communal experience of marveling at that beauty with so many other people from across the country and around the globe, then Yosemite Valley is a place you should experience for yourself.