Chapter 8 ~ Page 111
The next day a similar experience happened to improve the scenery, if that was possible. I was in the lead as we approached a lake over a carpet of grass. A few young men 
were splashing in the water, but I didn't pay too much attention to them for all the ladies in this party were changing into dry clothes behind a bush that shielded them from the swimmers' view, but not from mine. This covey of cuties were so occupied by making sure the boys weren't peeking, that they didn't hear, or notice my approach. You can be proud of me. I didn't feel that a few cat-calls here would be appropriate—Bernice probably would have made me ride in the rear the rest of the trip if I had—so Charlie and I very gentlemanly like tip-toed back up the trail out of sight.
We ran out of nudists, but still had beautiful campsites the six days we traveled to reach the north boundary of the park. It was a harmony of red tents, green meadows, fresh blue water. We probably saw more, enjoyed more, than any auto camper could ever believe. Over high passes we rode, winding through patches of snow, on granite, matched in color by puffy little clouds in an otherwise clear sky. Another corner brought a small rockbound pond, or a deep lake that stretched the eye and imagination to see the opposite shore.
In spite of our difficulties and disappointment at Tuolumne Meadow, we thoroughly enjoyed Yosemite. Today, looking back in my daydreams and comparing it with other wildernesses we passed through on the Pacific Crest Trail, I must admit that nowhere else did we find as many beautiful lakes, or fish so plentiful that it was possible to watch schools of trout dashing about in the water that bordered our pathway. Crossing the last, gentle, pass, a mere 9,000 feet—we were still following the backbone of the mountains, but it no longer was the "High" Sierra—we experienced mixed emotions. Behind lay meadows I would have liked to stayed in for the rest of the summer. Ahead lay a marker that read EMIGRANT BASIN WILDERNESS AREA, that meant we had traveled our first 1, 000 miles.
were splashing in the water, but I didn't pay too much attention to them for all the ladies in this party were changing into dry clothes behind a bush that shielded them from the swimmers' view, but not from mine. This covey of cuties were so occupied by making sure the boys weren't peeking, that they didn't hear, or notice my approach. You can be proud of me. I didn't feel that a few cat-calls here would be appropriate—Bernice probably would have made me ride in the rear the rest of the trip if I had—so Charlie and I very gentlemanly like tip-toed back up the trail out of sight.We ran out of nudists, but still had beautiful campsites the six days we traveled to reach the north boundary of the park. It was a harmony of red tents, green meadows, fresh blue water. We probably saw more, enjoyed more, than any auto camper could ever believe. Over high passes we rode, winding through patches of snow, on granite, matched in color by puffy little clouds in an otherwise clear sky. Another corner brought a small rockbound pond, or a deep lake that stretched the eye and imagination to see the opposite shore.
In spite of our difficulties and disappointment at Tuolumne Meadow, we thoroughly enjoyed Yosemite. Today, looking back in my daydreams and comparing it with other wildernesses we passed through on the Pacific Crest Trail, I must admit that nowhere else did we find as many beautiful lakes, or fish so plentiful that it was possible to watch schools of trout dashing about in the water that bordered our pathway. Crossing the last, gentle, pass, a mere 9,000 feet—we were still following the backbone of the mountains, but it no longer was the "High" Sierra—we experienced mixed emotions. Behind lay meadows I would have liked to stayed in for the rest of the summer. Ahead lay a marker that read EMIGRANT BASIN WILDERNESS AREA, that meant we had traveled our first 1, 000 miles.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia