1983/04 Yosemite trip - Donner Pass |
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Donner Pass |
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On Friday morning we were all checking out from the MGM Grand while outside it was snowing steadily. There was some discussion of whether people would get to the airport OK. On hearing that I was heading up into the mountains to go camping, some were convinced that it was the last time they’d ever see me, and said that it had been nice working with me. I wasn’t too sure myself of whether I’d make it. Tioga Pass, the route we’d used to get into Yosemite in the summer of ’79, doesn’t open until June most years, and the route through Tahoe was still closed, so I was going over the Donner Pass. If the name sounds familiar, you’re right; the Donner Party was stranded there by successive snowstorms and a few survived starvation, but only by eating those who died. I had a few days' food with me and had my knife and fork ready if I also got stranded and had to snack on my fellow travelers.
Climbing up to the pass, the road was deep in snow, but the car had good tyres and didn’t slide much. I passed a sign that said all travelers must carry chains. Minnesotans get around OK without snow chains, but there aren’t many hills there. I wondered whether my car had snow chains tucked away in the back somewhere [very unlikely!], but I didn’t dare stop and find out or I might not be able to get going again. I was lucky and made it to the top and there was little snow on the road on the California side, where I took this picture. As I dropped down from mountains to foothills, I drove from winter into spring; all was green and leafy and warm, a total transformation. I was going to have a much more comfortable camping trip than I’d feared.
The road south through the hills towards Yosemite is California’s Highway 49, named after the 1849 gold rush, and it passes through pretty little towns like Sutter Creek, where 
it all began, San Andreas, Placerville, and El Dorado. The gold mines are long closed, but the route is now a popular tourist area, probably busy with traffic in the summer, but very quiet in early spring. Like much of California, the area is prone to earthquakes and mudslides, and one stretch of road was inches deep in sticky red mud, being scraped up by machinery.
I turned off the 49 and headed east up into the mountains towards Yosemite national park. The road became narrow and twiddly, the sun had gone, and the verges were white with snow. On our last visit to Yosemite in July 1979 we had been overwhelmed by the great granite cliffs and the thundering waterfalls, but dismayed by the crowded campgrounds, the partying, and constant noise of traffic. Back then I had made an early-morning hike up to the top of Yosemite Falls and then used the iron ring to lower myself down the to a lookout where I could watch the waterfall begin its plunge. The view of the water swirling its way 1500 feet above the valley floor had been of course magnificent, but the noises from below were somehow amplified by the cliffs: campers arguing, dogs barking, cars starting, and generators whirring were enough to smother the sounds of water. For this trip, I was hoping that a little bit of snow would be enough to deter the crowds.