Emigrants in wilderness May 21 - 28, 2001 or how a to have a memorable Memorial Day weekend outside crowded parks and still in pretty woods.

	So this was our lodging...

	... and this is a sunset right behind our tent on our first evening

Memorial Day is celebrated on the last weekend in May, and it serves us as a remedy for missing May Day and May 8 holidays. Since it is the first extended weekend in Spring (last such one was February 19, as Easter Monday is also a workday), everybody makes elaborate plans long time ahead, to rush out "into the nature". It was obvious we were to enjoy some swarming.

Sid's employer, as a reaction to a crisis, announced compulsory unpaid vacation (popularly called shitdown, as a variant of the official name, "shutdown") for Friday, which enabled us to pack and leave right early morning. Our regular readers will already suspect how it went -- our lunch still saw us in the Valley, but at least it was really only noon and not half past two.

	Sid is about to try his strength at fixing our wagon

	Pinecrest Reservoir

Just to pick a route for our trip was not easy -- considering expectable crowds we had to dismiss all National Parks and other popular attractions. Further, we decided against northern direction (on grounds of cold weather) and deserts (on grounds of hot weather). West of us lies Pacific Ocean (dismissed on grounds of picnic and barbecue lovers' overload), and there's only one direction left: east. All we had to do was aim well to miss "busloads" heading for Yosemite.

Stanislaus National Forest is right next from Yosemite, to the north, its tops reach over 11 000 feet, and we could tune our ambient air temperature locally by changing our elevation. Sid has a favorite spot close to Strawberry, at about 7000 feet MSL, near Herring Creek. Going there, we missed our first turnoff, and had to use a forest "shortcut" from the next intersection - highway 108 is so narrow and winding there that we did not dare to make a U-turn.

The shortcut turned out to be quite acceptable and as we reached our desired road, we also met a forest ranger. She suggested to make our camp "somewhere up here", since it was quite crowded around the lake (Pinecrest Reservoir). She was also as nice as to issue us a fire permit, so we did not have to go back to the station. Campfires tend to get more dangerous with summer moving in -- it does no rain after March and already now in May the forest is dried up to a tinder. Normally you can camp anywhere you choose in a National Forest -- and you may make a campfire and cook on it, but a) you need to hear a lecture from a ranger that the fireplace must be surrounded with rocks, flammable stuff clean out from it in the range of five feet, the fire must be put out with water every time you leave or go to sleep, and never left unattended, etc.; and b) you need a written permit. Which we got through this incidental meeting.

	These falls kept waking us up throughout the night...

	... with cold cold water rushing with mighty roar over and down past the dam of the Pinecrest Reservoir

Following the advice we went a little farther up to a dam on Herring Creek. Even there it was relatively populated - we tried to drive around a small valley, explored various dead ends, trying to find a vacant spot, but several feet high banks of snow crossing the road eventually spoiled our efforts. We were not alone trying, about three times we met an old man in a capsizer (see definition here), who obviously also dithered through the landscape. Finally giving up on Herring Creek as saturated by fishermen (unfortunately this weekend has only underscored our cold relationship to the fishing variety of homo sapiens) and too cold (we were treated to camping in snow the other day).

Our Wagon had a similar opinion, and after an off road section, it started to rattle noisily. Sid eventually had to fix it and manly (read: with force) straighten out covers that were bent out of shape by interfering boulders, and began to grind at the drive shaft (said Sid). While Sid crawled under our Wagon and I investigated a mystery of a vanishing creek (in the middle of a meadow, a relatively strong spring flew out, disappearing into the ground some twenty yards yonder), the above mentioned old man came by in his capsizer (our mutual encounter #4) and asked what happened and if we can drive. I was quite pleased by the fact that he bothered to check whether we were alright, although we parked in a side track and did not indicate in any fashion that we would need help. Perhaps Hippo's legs sticking out from under a car spoke for themselves.

	Another reservoir - Donnell Lake

	Carol at Clark Creek

To our satisfaction, Sid managed to straighten the covers, our Wagon stopped creaking, and we returned to lower elevations, to our original shortcut route, trying to get lucky there. In a maze of forest roads we finally found the right one -- it ended on a hill, far enough so we could not hear the highway traffic, and low enough (6,300 ft) to get into a warmer zone.

We erected our tent, made a campfire, ate a little, and I started imagining all the bears in vicinity getting alert. Despite of that, I got into our tent and slept until a caterpillar began to nibble at it in the morning. I would never have believed that such a small critter could make such a racket.

	For this shot, Sid got almost flushed away

	A river vanishes in a swirl under a rock... I hope that Sid won't follow it

We also discovered in the morning that a roar we attributed to trains or some other industrial activity, which lasted through the whole night, did actually come from a waterfall deep in the valley under our hill. It seemed to be worth closer scrutiny, though it was actually an overflow runoff from Pinecrest Lake. We left our tent and sleeping bags and drove down.

Although Pinecrest on the Stanislaus river is an artificial reservoir, it is immensely beautiful. We quickly found out why it is so popular -- with its tiny, sandy beaches, where little kids were splashing around, a marina, busy with motorboats full of red bellies and never-ending fishing lines -- despite all those crowds, it has clear water, with visibility several yards deep. Dragging our cameras along, we headed for the dam that was the location of our waterfall. We watched a practically mummified elderly man returning from the trail, and concluded that if he was able to hike it, we would master it easily wearing sandals. Well it was manageable all the way to the dam, though sun was burning mercilessly (Pinecrest lies at only 5,600 ft). Yet the falls and a beautiful stretch of river rapids were BELOW the dam. We hiked down some more, waded a portion of the icy water, and climbed back up through natural slope of a rock pile which forms the dam. Meanwhile the heat and concentration of red bellies reached a new top, and it was time to leave this attraction.

	Carol at Sonora Pass (9,600 ft MSL)

	This river could surely be ridden down in a canoe!

We moved on a few miles out of Stanislaus NF, stopping by the first available decent restaurant. Though Morenita is a Mexican joint, the waitress asked right away were we were from and after mentioning Czech Republic her face lit up with hope that we could explain what the name Trnka meant, as her daughter married a certain Trnka, but they only know that it is a Czech name. We tried what we could but did not remember the English word (sloe). We can only highly recommend Morenita -- nice service, excellent food, and overwhelming portions. Which is very pleasing after seeing campgrounds near Pinecrest (people lining up for bathrooms, lining up to restaurant entrance, lining up for boats, cars lining up for parking...).

Driving back up on highway 108, we went all the way to Sonora Pass. Only a few week ago it was closed, for between November and May it is blocked by snow. Even at the end of May, we could throw snow balls at each other (a childish thing, but we could not resist), yet I would like to mention that hiking through snow ledges in sandals is not quite wise...

	I'm fixing up the rappelling rig

	Sid preparing for his athletic performance

I insisted that we stop at the next waterfall, and so Sid obliged, quite thoroughly, I must say. A mountain creek was disappearing with a waterfall into a hole between giant boulders, presenting an overall scary impression.

On Sunday morning we were so tired that we canceled our plans to conquer Sonora Peak. Slowly staggering around the tent, we tried to come up with a programme that would all take place in a colder climate and demand only minuscule physical effort. Eventually we drove off aimlessly and took the first interesting road off 108, going into a valley to some creek. We zigzagged on a dusty road among mid-sized boulders, until we found a larger one, well accessible, with sold looking trees on top.

Sid never had the honor with a "living rock", and had expressed a wish to at least learn how to rappel. So I tied my ropes between two mighty pines (to make sure it would hold up to Hippo's weight) and we practiced there for a while.

We also wanted to go for somewhat shorter hike, hopefully to or along some water (a lake or a waterfall); Sid read out of our map that there is a trail going out from private Kennedy Meadows to Relief Reservoir.

	Kitschy Upper Meadow

	At this first bridge we were still unaware that we would hike up to the level of the top of the mountain in the background

On our way, we tried to stop and have a lunch at a place called Dardanelles. It is really a huge campground, so we expected civilization privileges, like restaurants and public restrooms, but eventually encountered something that reminded of a badly managed union recreational facility from the times of socialist Czechoslovakia. A pub open from seven till nine for breakfast, eleven to two for lunch (it was three p.m.), and five to seven for dinner. A store exhibiting a frightened tiny herd of sandwiches so stale that we found it healthier to starve to death instead. They also offered a "collection" of about three postcards -- unfocused, miniature pictures with a bright red stubby letters in the middle (SONORA PASS) -- again, a very convincing reminder of our good old era of building a socialist motherland. And yes, there was a super-bored store help, wearing a disgusted frown; I've seen the like before, but perhaps the first time here in America. We left hastily, with rumbling stomachs and sinking spirits, and without postcards for the winners of our contest (don't worry, there will be postcards, we just need to find something prettier).

Hence we were quite skeptical when entering Kennedy Meadows. It was quite obvious from the very start that there was a parking problem, but just as Sid wanted to turn around and leave, a geezer in a truck left -- and we got a free spot. Right across from a wooden house that had a terrace sporting a "DINING ROOM" sign, plus some "cowboys" stuffing their faces. With a renewed hope, we unleashed ourselves onto a late lunch.

	Emigrant in a wilderness

	Kennedy Creek, now in Spring full of water, meanders through Upper Meadow

A talkative server took care of us at the eatery, we received a sandwich and a cheeseburger (a standard American idea of a lunch), and Sid even got a second, free lemonade (after he threw his hands about so much that he spilled his first one). The waitress recommended us to make a reservation for the night, as it was likely to be full. We asked her where to go hiking, and she directed us to Upper Meadow, saying it's very pretty there. After hesitating a little bit she added that we could continue towards Relief Reservoir (3 miles) or to Kennedy Lake (8 miles) -- perhaps we did not look able to walk more than few yards.

It seems appropriate to mention something more about Kennedy Meadows. It's a private business consisting of several rentable cabins, a lodge, above mentioned dining room, saloon, nice staff and -- horses. You can rent them with or without a guide, with or without food, with a pack animal, for a few hours or a whole week ... anyway you want. You can also bring your own horse to Kennedy Meadows, and ride it there. I think we were the only ones not wearing riding boots, blue jeans, and this very wide belt with a huge buckle (as you surely know, we do have leather hats ). Also we were among the very few walkers, but it did not bother anyone. Unlike our previous experience, where "poor lowly" hikers on trails inconvenienced riders greatly, we did not feel any such thing here. Perhaps because we happened to venture among people who ride horses because they like it, not to maintain an "image". If you're interested what would such a trip on horses through Sierra look like, I recommend their picture gallery on their pages - they have a few snapshots there.

	A horse trail

	A view back across a bridge over one of the creek's forks

We reserved a dinner for two with a lady well into a retirement age, assisted by yet an older lady, and started out to Upper Meadows. We must really look like losers, for the meadow with a deep green, wonderful thick grass, and a river curving in the middle, was only about three hundred yards away from the DINING ROOM.

Crossing this cute kitschy clearing, we aimed across the river to a trail toward the reservoir. Soon we understood that these three miles won't be a child's play. The trail is trodden by countless horse hooves into a fine sand. Altitude difference between KM and the lake is a thousand feet, which is not so easy to climb with your feet ankle deep in dust. I'm also not quite sure if it is really such a good idea to travel on horses -- we met one group, and besides a first rider who obviously enjoyed himself and wished us "buenas noches" (it was four thirty in the afternoon and we were just at the beginning), all the others were holding their shirts or scarves over their mouths and noses against dust. Still, the landscape is worth it. Part of the trail leads through a rocky canyon over a mountain creek, which showed off with several waterfalls and permanent rapids. Upper parts cuts through a picturesque grove, and finishes with a rocky plateau, opening a view to the surface of the reservoir. We could not figure out how they managed to build the dam, there is no other road up there, and though we found remains of a steam engine along the trail, it still does not explain where the concrete for the dam came from. By the way -- the dam is nicely hidden when looking from the plateau, so you get an illusion of a natural glacier lake.

We had less than two hours left to our dinner time, and three miles to go down. It's faster down hill, of course, and as we cursed the deep sand on our way up, we loved it while descending -- the soft padding for your steps is ideal. We made it by the arranged hour, even managed to switch our sweaty shirts. I changed to sandals, but Sid was thoughtful enough to keep his boot on -- we did not want to pay such good hospitality back by repelling the majority of paying guests...

	On of many waterfalls on Kennedy Creek

	A view from the horse trail into Kennedy Creek Canyon

We took a long time choosing our dinner meal -- watching other people's portions it was clear not even a Hippo could eat it all. In the end, I ordered a child's portion of a prime rib steak, and Sid had a trout. Again we confirmed Sid's theory that meat from a "happy cow" (that is, a cow that grazes all its life on some slope or meadow and who's biggest stress is a worry whether grass three steps yonder isn't juicier after all) tastes different. American steaks turned me carnivore again, and I must say that a freshly caught, de-boned rainbow trout is quite an experience, too.

We received some unintended amusement from two cowboys at a table next to ours. They were both visibly already soaked, and matched our idea of cattle caretakers (at least showing rather simple minds). A quite pretty girl sat with them, but she did not talk and sometimes looked a bit embarrassed. We tried to guess whether they picked her up somewhere along the trail, or whether she belonged to one of them -- and if so, then to whom. Sid warned me not to stare at them, for the bigger one (who sat right across from me) could understand it as a challenge and he (Sid) would have to fight. Luckily, there was no brawl at all, at least not in the dining room. Can't say about the saloon (where both our heroes went after dinner), as we did not go there. Manly, courageous characters started getting thicker outside with the advanced evening, and I would not bet against the chance that all this well-intended nudging could lead to a major prank.

	Relief Reservoir could be a glacier lake -- if it were not artificial

	Even on our way down, nobody would "turn the landscape off"

Our beds were still far back on a hill over Pinecrest, where we meekly headed after dinner.

In the morning, we ate slowly and took our time packing all our stuff, before driving home. Memorial Weekends are known to be plagued by worst traffic jams of the whole year, so we wanted to give it an early start. All in vain, it turned out, at the intersection of 108 meeting highway 120 from Yosemite, traffic was controlled by police and it looked a little like braiding a Christmas cake -- stream of cars took turns in passing through and holding on. We ran out of patience near Oakdale, started out GPS and for next three hours squeezed through access roads between farms and fields. I think I deserve a medal for combat navigation -- if Sid did not make a wrong turn shortly before Dumbarton Bridge, we would have driven all the way home and avoided all freeways. This way, we "cheated" through the last 15 miles on 880 and 237 and 101 (fortunately in a direction only few used at the time).

Copyright © 2001-2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.