Going up the country

38 A.D.

[From Thursday onwards...]

Fortunately the police were not called to the bus station at Salt Lake City last night, although the paramedics came after an old man was sick into a bin.

Our next destination was a place that I’d only really heard of in one line of the Johnny Cash song Folsom prison blues:

“I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die...”

Thanks for that, Johnny. 

Reno sells itself as “the biggest little city in the world”, kinda like a smaller version of Vegas. Like its larger state neighbour, there are three things to do in Reno – gamble, get married and get divorced. We wouldn’t be in town long enough to do any of them as the bus arrived at 8.30 (a bloomin` hour late) and we were picking up our rental car at 9. That said, we always fancy a coffee to get ourselves going and Tim said he’d spotted a Macdonalds close to the terminal just before we pulled in. We looked, nothing there. He claims it must have been a mirage. Oh dear, my little brother is already having hallucinations and we’ve got a four hour drive across the desert coming up!

We’d booked the hire car through Hertz and were picking it up at Hurrah’s casino car park. Not needing anything fancy, we’d opted for the smallest car available, a “compact”. What we got was a gold Chevy Malibu with a 3.6 litre engine – definitely not a compact! A big beast like this wasn’t going to help us learn to drive on the wrong side of the road! Still, it was at least an automatic transmission, which meant one less thing to think about.  

And so we headed south on route 395, Yosemite National Park being our destination. Although Greyhound not going directly to Yosemite was cause enough for us to make our own way, we’d both fancied doing an all-American road trip, but it hadn’t been practical to rent a vehicle from east coast to west. At least this way we got to experience the open highway for a while before returning to the unwelcoming bosom of Greyhound. And despite the scattered rain drops on our windshield, the highway still rocked and made us feel like we were born to be wild.

Doing the driving in shifts so the other person could make video / takes pictures as we went, it took us about the four hours we expected to hit the park limits. Speaking of hitting things, the only roadkill we saw on the way was a dead raccoon – you see more than that on the 20 minute drive from Southport to Ormskirk!

Yosemite costs $10 to enter, but your pass is valid for a week. It is a vast expanse of nature with campsites dotted here, there and everywhere. The only way to enter from the east is via Tioga Road, which is closed from November to May, and judging by some of the sheer drops by the roadside, coupled with the constant signs for falling rocks, I could easily understand why. The scenery was stunning and we had to stop every few minutes for a photo opportunity, and to annoy the chipmunks who were running around all over the place, fuming that we’d strayed into their territory.

Our destination was White Wolf campsite where we hoped to park up with no hassle, no fuss. At the turn off we were greeted with a sign saying CAMP FULL. Nah, they probably still have room for a compact Chevy Malibu in a clearing somewhere, right? Wrong. Even before Tim had started asking the camp warden about a space, the guy was shaking his head. A woman's voice from within a tent directed us back down the road to Yosemite Creek camp, claiming it was usually the last one to fill up. If we fancied risking it and parking out on the main road for the night, the chances are we would get a ticket from the park rangers on patrol, and I hadn’t planned on winding Ranger Smith up by stealing pic-a-nic baskets or anything else. Oh hang on, that’s Yellowstone. Oh hang on, that’s Jellystone!

Yosemite Creek is never full for a good reason – it is incredibly difficult to get to! The road is extremely narrow and winding and rocky and potholey and would make tough work for the most rugged 4 x 4, let alone an oversized Chevy Malibu. Eventually we stopped worrying about the car’s suspension and made it down to the bottom of the track and some semblance of civilisation. Well, I say “civilisation”, but there were no showers, no running water, and the toilets...I don’t want to write about the toilets.

Other people were here, so we didn’t feel quite so crazy, but they had all of the gear needed for surviving several days in the centre of Yosemite. Unfortunately the advertised diner at White Wolf where we’d planned to fill up had been closed, so our provisions consisted exclusively of crisps and chocolate. Yes, yes, I know that’s pretty much what I exist on at work, but this was the great outdoors. Oh well, it’s an adventure, isn’t it! An adventure within an adventure.

Speaking of food, it all has to be locked up in big metal bear-proof closets. Yes, they really do have black and grizzly bears strolling around this place and everywhere in the campsite there are warnings about what to do if you encounter them. Oh how I would love to encounter them!

The drive through the park had taken longer than we expected and it wasn’t until 6 p.m. that we’d parked up, stretched our legs and packed our rucksacks, ready to head out on the trail. I was keen to find a big, sharp stick to use if the bears made our acquaintance, but I’m sad to say they didn’t – we couldn’t even spot any off in the distance. Bloody little chipmunks, sure, but bears? Nope. However, we did get a fantastic sense of Yosemite in all its natural beauty as the sun slowly set on the horizon.

Sticking to the flow of the creek to accurately maintain our position, we suddenly became attacked by pesky mosquitoes from every which way – I may have packed my compass, but I’d neglected my insect repellent. Figuring that the blighters prefer the humid air around the creek, we headed up the rocks to the higher, dryer ground and meditated for ten minutes in perfect silence (bar the odd sneeze or imagined mozzy swipe).

The sun went down and we returned to the campsite, sitting down at our plot’s pic-a-nic table to dine on our meagre provisions. All layered up with as many clothes as we could comfortably wear, and ignoring the warm glow of our neighbours’ fires, we indulged in several hands of cards until bad light stopped play.

So, to bed we went at just before 9 p.m., “bed” being the rather poky Chevy Malibu – Tim on the driver’s side, me on the passenger’s, with both seats fully reclined. We also had our sleep sheets, blow-up travel pillows, eye masks and a flat sheet that we’d bought weeks ago to keep us warm on the overnight bus journeys when the aircon goes into overdrive.

And so we said night-night to Yosemite.

Next morning...

When we’d switched the driver’s light off, the interior of the car had seemed pretty warm and we thought we’d make it through the night fine. Wrong. We both woke up cold, probably around the same time, though neither was aware that the other wasn’t asleep. At some point in the early hours I complained that I didn’t have any of the flat sheet, but it had actually got twisted around the back of my head. The only time I peeked out from beneath my eye mask I saw the light of a single star shining down on me – it was so bright that at first I thought it was the rising sun on the horizon. Eventually I warmed myself enough to return to sleep, but I didn’t do it by counting bears.

Tim’s alarm went off at 6.30 and we powered straight out of Yosetmite Creek campsite, the treacherous, winding road seeming much less treacherous the second time around. Thank Chevy for the heated seats that kicked in once the engine started up! Although we’d been cold and groggy, the morning scene in the park was amazing and far more beautiful than anything I’ve woken up to when wild camping in the Forest of Bowland. As always, it makes it so much better when there is guaranteed sunshine to greet you.

We had to get the car back to Reno for 6 p.m., so we were to spend the morning in Yosemite Valley, which is the main tourist trap for the park – seven miles long by one mile wide, with plenty of waterfalls and peaks for the public to stare at in awe. Gasoline was pricier than outside of the park (the guide book had warned us it would be so), but strangely my regular morning apple cost much less than it usually does in the city supermarkets. Guess if I’d looked a little harder I could have picked my own.

We got back to Harrah’s casino at Reno for 5 p.m., using our “mad skills” (back in a Nashville drinking hole, a redneck approached Tim in the toilets and said, “Hey, boy, how’d ya keep yer shoes so white?” Caught on the spot, and a little inebriated, Tim’s reply was, “Mad skills.” The real reason was because it was the first time he'd worn them, but ever since then it’s become a bit of a catchphrase.)

Now we’re off to San Francisco on the overnight bus – our third evening in a row of not sleeping in a bed. It’s also been a couple of days since we had a shower, but we’re maintaining standards where we can and changing clothes in public toilets, cleaning teeth over rock pools, etc. The Lynx spray has also taken a hammering in the last 48 hours. Keeping the hygiene level high is also necessary because San Francisco is extremely popular for travellers and it was difficult to find accommodation - sharing was the only option. We’re back in a hostel, in a room with two other blokes. Gulp.

After more than five weeks on the road, it was finally time to take California for the British...