The clouds are threatening rain and there is a cold nip in the air as I cross the filthy but historic (or historically filthy) Camp 4 and head up the Upper Yosemite Fall trail. The trail is quiet. The overcast day adds to the darkness of the forest—dark moss covered granite boulders and the dark trunks of trees. I admire the strange interconnectedness of plant life and granite. The moss and lichens cling to the boulders. Tree seedlings take root; larger trees grasp onto piles of rocks. The path is lined with white granite speckled with black mica and rose quartz. The granite, maple, and oaks make me think of New England.

Once while hiking with my parents, my dad pointed out how the little seedling would one day split the rock. I don’t know if he meant it as a “You can do anything” metaphor or just a fact of nature. I guess I thought it interesting enough to tuck away in my head.

I’m reminded of this again, but now in Yosemite, land of giant broken granite mountains, I know the seedlings get help. The water that trickles into the cracks, the ice that freezes, and the sun that heats the stone, expanding, contracting and weakening it. Perhaps the whole thing was started by a bird who dropped the seed which nestled into the moss and compost of dead leaves.

All these forces worked to destroy the rock and create a forest. Creation and destruction become the same. The trees slowly destroy the rocks over time. And then, a rock slide splinters the trees in an instant. National Park museums and media always seem to talk about Earth’s creative and destructive tendencies—volcanoes, earthquakes, weather and rivers. I suppose when you are thrust into a natural world, away from cities where human creation and destruction reigns, you can’t help but be pulled into the natural cycles of things. Somehow it becomes easier to accept life and death. Somehow life seems to make sense. It all seems so simple. How have humans managed to make it all so complicated?

The forest is muted. I can hear leaves falling. Only the jays occasionally squawk. The sound of a woodpecker drifts down from the tree top like a tap dancer in the sky.

Most of the birds are quiet. Perhaps they sense the snow coming. The trail zigzags up the mountain. Then I hear the sound of a light pattering on the leaves. Rain? No, snow. I see the specks on my black jacket. They stay for a moment then melt away. The path opens out to a view of the valley. Across the peaks are covered with snow and crowded with perfect pine and fir trees, white snow frosting their branches like a scene from a Christmas card.

“Nice trail,” a voice says. A couple is resting against a boulder, admiring the view.

“And we get some snow, too.” I say happily.

“We thought we’d see more people on this trail, “ they say.

“The weather forecast predicted a high chance of rain.”

The woman catches a snow flake on her hand… “Well… Do you know if this is Columbia Rock?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess. It’s a big rock with a nice view.” They wish me a good hike and head back down. I realize later that it isn’t Columbia rock which in fact has a better view and is much higher. Oops.

Once again I’m by myself. The oak trees seem to hang onto the hillside, contorted. Below the yellow meadows are a pale reflection of the brilliant light gold of the maples on the hillside above.

I could smell the change in vegetation before I heard or saw the little streamlet trickling down a boulder. I recognized the minty smell of mugwort. This little damp patch provided enough water for grasses, flowers and some willows.

I’ve let several people pass me. Some hike so quickly I wonder if they will remember the path. I find someone who is hiking at my pace. We leap frog on the path a couple times. He is alone and walks more slowly, looking at things and taking photos.

The trees have become less dense. I lean against sharp vertical walls of granite that rise impossibly straight into the sky. The wind is cool and smells of snow. Half Dome and Mt. Starr King shine with snow. Jays dive and the straightness of pines echo the vertical lines of the cliffs. Everything points to the sky. So I look up into the clouds.

I’ve left the leaf strewn dirt of the lower forest and now the trees are scarcer but more imperial—tall pines, firs and cedars. To the right is the steep cliff which usually holds Yosemite Fall. It’s dry, not a trickle, but has a slightly damp look like a shadow.

More people pass going up; more people pass going down. A couple who passed me earlier pass me on the way down. “Did you make it to the top?” “No, the weather looks bad. I convinced him to go down.” I can see the clouds have gotten a little darker, ominous, suggesting more than playful flurries.

“I’m turning back, myself, soon.” I say. “I just was going to hike 3 hours and then go back and catch a bus.”

“It must be 3PM already.”

“No, it’s only one.” I tell them.

“You have a watch?”

“iPod,” I admit slightly embarrassed.

I walk a few more minutes then turn around and head down. Light snow drifts. It picks up for a few minutes speckling the air around a beautiful pine.

“Did you make it to the top?” someone asks.

“No, I didn’t have enough time.”

I begin to think what a lame question, “Did you make it to the top?” is. A lot of us hiking probably didn’t even intend to. The trail is so beautiful, but we act like there is only one place of value, “The top.” I’m sure the view from the top is amazing. But the question is irritating. If you made it you have to answer questions about how long it took and what the weather was like. If you didn’t make it you have to make excuses. I decide not to ask anyone this. Not that I’d have the opportunity to ask anyone since I was going down.

On my way down clouds fill in the valley hiding Half Dome and the mountains. The snow starts up again. Then the clouds disappear as if swallowed by Half Dome’s giant mouth. The valley begins to clear and blue sky is again visible.

Useful Information The Upper Yosemite Fall trail is 7.2 miles round trip with 2,700 ft elevation gain. It leads to the top of Yosemite Falls which is the tallest waterfall in North America (2,475 feet). Take the free hiking shuttle to Shuttle stop #7 (Camp 4) in Yosemite Valley. The estimated time is 6-8 hours.