Leavitt Meadows.

We had our campfire alone this year, with no friends.

This year, one of the few unmovable holidays fell on Thursday. We planned to see fireworks in Bridgeport again, and when we failed to entice any friendly families, we set out for the mountains on Wednesday without them. Much snow still lied around, and water was everywhere too. It did not just snow a lot, but some of it kept falling even in June, and thanks to colder weather it all melted slowly and gradually. Our usual favorite campsite evoked a picture of a medieval castle (surrounded by a moat — filled rather with mud instead of water — and full of mosquitoes), thus we had to divert uphill to stay dry and not be eaten alive. We roasted some sausages, and then Lisa has ceremonially, to open the summer break, burned an old math notebook. It was her notebook from sixth grade, still from the brick-and-mortar school, where her math teacher was a complete ass. Lisa had not been the only kid who shed tears over her math, and we were certainly not the only parents who complained about the individual — regardless of how the principal tried to spin it (that no-one else was complaining, and that the teacher was an extremely nice person — by the way, this very nice person had been allegedly suspended this year for student abuse). Well, Lisa had apparently received from this kind man many a trauma, since it was worth to her, two years after she got rid of him, finding an old notebook, pack it along on a camping trip, and then burn it ritually. I hope that by this, we had closed the whole sorry chapter of brick-and-mortar schooling, and we are moving on to brighter tomorrows. After the solemn cremation, darkness and cold had soon forced us into our sleeping bags. Temperature was supposed to drop down to freezing overnight, but I think it wasn't as bad.

How can you tell summer break is here? Daughter burns her math notebook.

It's a steep climb up to Gardisky Lake.

On Thursday morning we had slept in. Yes, even I lasted in my sleeping back till half past eight; kids and Hippo lasted naturally much longer. But the purpose of vacation is to indulge in things that are normally not possible. We turned down an idea to take part in a day-long celebrations in Bridgeport — and instead into noisy crowds we headed deeper into the mountains — having reckoned that Virginia Lakes were still under snow, while Lundy would be flooded, we knew that Pavel had skied Saddlebag on preceding weekend. And we were also ready for a change of scenery — so we picked Gardisky Lake on the boundary of Yosemite Park, near Saddlebag Lake, and kept Gaylor Lake as a backup.

Tom was the only one not wheezing, and still having enough energy to run around and be silly.

A view across a nameless pond towards northern slopes of White Mountain.

I must say that had we not picked the location by online guides and photographs, we would not get lured to try it — a dusty parking space and a steeply sloping trail in a nondescript grove. A trailhead starts at nine thousand feet, which causes in us, ocean-level dwelling creatures, considerable shortness of breath. We managed to scramble up the mere six hundred feet only with much wheezing — the only one among us who was not wheezing, was Tom, who's neither old nor fat nor asthmatic enough. The ascent had paid off, for we found ourselves in a shallow basin with a deep blue lake and snow-melt ponds. The area contained a pleasant number of tourists — a lonely fisherman quivered on the lakeshore, and we occasionally glimpsed two other families — but only from a distance. Apparently, as this attraction exists outside the national park proper, no-one comes here to shout and make racket.
Naturally our way back down was more challenging than our way up. We had only wheezed and grunted going up, but coming down we slid and cursed, and hoped that our old knees would not buckle under us.

Looking to the south, more or less from the same spot, across Gardisky Lake and spring greenery.

The pool was incredibly warm.

Just for the kick of it, we crossed the park boundary to check out our second option — Gaylor Lake — but that trail included snow banks across it, apparently we would have had a harder time than at Gardisky. So we only spilled out on the meadow to admire a classic Yosemite scenery across a small lake onto snow-capped mountains, and then we headed back to Nellie's Deli for an early dinner. After a meal we still had time to check out Mono Lake and play cards in our favorite park on the northern shore, before it was time to transport ourselves to Bridgeport with its fireworks. I'm not sure if more people had come this year, or whether local cops had handled traffic less smoothly, but it took longer than usual after the fireworks were over, to get disentangled from the local jam in the small town, and we reached our tents by eleven.

In the morning I was getting up at seven thirty just to make a coffee and breakfast, and an hour later Sid dropped me off at the pack station, where I had imposed myself for a trip to the waterfalls. I wanted to say hi to Ned, but he was merrily chasing his buddies on a pasture, and when he came closer to the railing momentarily and let me scratch his nose, he viewed me with suspicion — perhaps he was worried I would want to ride him. I tried to call alternatively all other family members, but no one would pick up the phone, and thus I had no other choice than to ride in my worn leather moccasins. It may not have been a bad thing — despite the wranglers' assurances that water in the ford was only up to the stirrups, I emerged with wet feet — which in moccasins is less of a problem than in ankle-high riding boots.

Coming down was harder than going up.

Mammoth Peak.

I must say that this ride was a relatively heavy blow to my self-confidence. I was issued a new horse, Roscoe — one of ten "rented out" for the season from Idaho, and I did not throughout the ride manage to "talk it out" with him. It started with a rodeo on departure — Roscoe refused to leave the corral, jumped and ran all over the place, just not with the other horses. Eventually one of the wrangler had to shamefully lead us on a rope and kick us out of the gate. I was rather worried that Roscoe would decide to hurry back and so I paid a lot of attention in critical moments — when entering a ford, where one waits and hesitates; when our guide Brandon decided to return from the point position back to the rear with a bug spray for tourists; when we were passing a short-cut back to the ranch. Then I underestimated a moment when horses behind us had stopped and riders were dealing with something — Roscoe figured they stopped for we would go back home, and caused another rodeo, unpleasant by its taking place on a narrow woods trail. Fortunately our rear guide kept her wherewithal and turned her horse across the path, thus blocking our way home, but since then Roscoe could not abandon the idea of turning back, and we had to get shamefully rescued by Brandon, who led my horse on a rope back into the line. Roscoe is apparently one of those horses who don't think much, and let every moment affect them.

Fireworks in Bridgeport.

Bronco.

I like the ride to the waterfalls because just before reaching the final attraction, one has to dismount and walk the remaining six hundred feet — legs get stretched from sitting in the saddle. Alas, Roscoe made another scene, wrapping himself around a tree to which he was tied. What could have led him to walk around the tree until his mouth would scrape the bark, and why was he unable or unwilling to back out of it to achieve more comfort, I have no idea. Horses are, unlike donkeys and mules, relatively "un-clever" — when they find themselves in a perceived trap, they are able to tear they own leg off, or even head, just to get out, instead of waiting for help. Roscoe was jerking his head, bruising on the tree, while still insisting on moving forward, which he could not, being in this phase at the end of his (short) lead. So we had to rescue my horse from a trap of his own making. A crazy horse — in a way, I feel sorry for him; as his colleagues from Idaho looked relaxed, only he could not step out of the circle of his own discontent, or think of something else. All the while he was otherwise skillful, being able to find his own way through a mess of rocks in the steep sections, unfazed by high water in the river, not scared when passing through a swamp; he did not stumble or slide, simply ideal mountain horse. Only, through all four hours of this ride, the horse would not talk to me, and when I offered him an apple at the end, he turned his head away, offended. His loss — there were other horses eager to take care of the treat, so they got his apple.

It's harder than it seems to catch the calf.

Northern Mono Lake.

The rest of the family took part (naturally as spectators) in a real rodeo in Bridgeport. They were lucky, for they came just right to see bronco rides, and so they enjoyed the most interesting part. Lisa would have lasted longer, but Sid and Tom were boiled like lobsters from the sun, and I needed picking up at the pack station. We returned to our campsite to pack everything again, and continued our tradition — calling at Mountain View Barbecue in Walker. We had a late lunch, beer (adults), ice cream (kids), and just to be sure, took highway 88 back home. We did not want to risk holiday traffic over Yosemite or Sonora — herds of mobile homes migrated everywhere, along with flocks of bikers, which is a serious drag on narrow mountain roads. 88 is really wider and faster. Still, it was half past nine when we got back home. Sid worked on Saturday to compensate for Friday, kids and I tried to rest and sleep — for Sunday held another round of vaulting.