Half Dome irresistible on winter evening

0 Comments | Deseret News (Salt Lake City), Mar 27, 2005 | by Robyn Dochterman Minneapolis-St. Paul Star Tribune

The photographers gathered just before dusk. Cameras slung around necks or planted on tripods, they clicked as the slanting sun washed Half Dome, Yosemite National Park's signature landmark, in a luminous glow.

Deep woods shadows darkened our feet, but jutting 4,800 feet above the valley floor, the granite monolith cut a striking statue of gold against a bruising blue sky.

Its sheer vertical face is a favorite route of rock climbers on summer days, but watching Half Dome was every bit as irresistible on this winter evening. Patient and pleasant, the photographers chatted when they weren't pressing shutters during the low-tech light show. Stomach growling, I left the shooting to the pros and headed to dinner. I'd get another look at Half Dome soon enough.

Intrigued by reports from those who'd been to Yosemite, from the legendary naturalist John Muir to my nature-loving next-door neighbors, I wanted to experience the California park's iconic cliffs and cascades myself, but I was wary of its reputation for crowds.

I began to think about visiting in winter, sometimes called Yosemite's "secret season." When I discovered the ski school there offered a two-day, guided cross-country tour on a road closed to traffic -- one that led to Glacier Point, arguably the best vista in a park full of breathtaking views -- I knew it was time to pack.

The week before I arrived, a superstorm dropped 4 feet of snow in the Sierras, wrapping the alpine landscape in a blanket of white. By the time I got there, tire chains were no longer required to navigate winding mountain roads, rangers had shoveled paths to roadside bathrooms, and classic tracks for the ski trip were set.

I'd follow a guide 10 1/2 miles out to a ski hut, spend the night and ski back the next day. It had seemed like a reasonable plan for a recreational skier like me when I'd made arrangements weeks earlier. True, I'd never skied that far in a day, much less done the distance back-to-back. I had expected it to snow in the Twin Cities so I could practice kicking and gliding. Yet, only a dusting had fallen by the time I jostled my way onto the plane in January.

As the first rays lit the valley on the morning of the ski tour, it dawned on me that I was wholly unprepared. I had the right socks, the right gloves and the right hydration pack. But I hadn't skied even once this season. My nonchalant denial about my ability dissipated like night's cool air.

I nervously gulped down breakfast and started the drive up to Badger Pass, where the tour would begin. Fog shrouded Yosemite Village, and it made the cairn-like snowmen built in the meadows seem mystical. A rainbow danced across lower Yosemite Falls. A beautiful day was unfolding in the valley, and for a moment, I was tempted to give in to the urge to stay there.

At the ski school, my partner, Deidre, and I met the rest of the small group : two men from Fresno and one from Sacramento. They had skied the route before and carried themselves with a confidence borne of familiarity, since the nation's second-oldest park was practically in their back yard. The sun was surprisingly warm as we slathered on sunscreen and shouldered our packs. Our fit and funny guide, Nancy Shenton, led us up the trail.

I filled my lungs with the fresh fragrance of the fir trees towering around us, a forest of green piercing crystalline sky. Now and then, branches bent to the ground under stacks of snow suddenly sprang up, released from their weighted captivity as the mercury nudged 50 degrees.

Our group stopped for lunch after a couple of hours' labor.

The ascent that followed was humbling. At sea level, I'm no slouch. But as we climbed to the saddle at 8,000 feet, my pounding pulse banged in my brain like a xylophone player gone mad. I stopped several times, not to catch my breath -- that was impossible -- but to dull the thumping-throbbing-thudding of my syncopated pain. I finally realized this was more than being out of shape. Altitude sickness was taking a toll.

Eventually, we crested the hill and began to descend. My lungs were grateful for the dip in elevation because it meant a bit more oxygen. Then I saw the sign posted for buses that bring tourists -- 1 million of them -- to Glacier Point in the summer: "8% grade." I knew it meant steep.

I swerved down a series of switchbacks and corkscrew curves. Just about the time I began to enjoy the ride, my skis chattered over ragged ice and I nearly fell. Finally emerging into a clearing, I saw the group waiting alongside a bend in the trail. Then I saw Half Dome and stopped short. Just across a canyon, the gray giant stood virtually at eye level, radiantly rich in gold sun.

The granite ripples of its hood were splotched with snow, and I thought it should seem cold and aloof. Instead, I felt a sense of intimate belonging, as though I were being let in on some important family secret or a circle of powerful friends.

Minutes passed while I basked in the strength of Half Dome. Even after everyone else left, I couldn't seem to pull myself away. When I finally did, it took only 10 minutes to coast to the front door of the hut, which turned out to be a $2.7 million building. A gift and snack shop in summer, in winter it becomes a beautiful, if overachieving, bunkhouse.