Hiking the half-dome (or how a fucking bear ate my backpack)

When explorers were discovering what is now Yosemite National Park, one famously remarked that the Half-Dome was the only one of its peaks that would never be under human boots. Of course when you make a declaration like that, all the crazies come out of the woodwork to challenge it. One of those crazies was a blacksmith by the name of George Anderson, who scaled the surface by punching iron bolts into it, and slowly made his way to the peak. Following his path are now iron rods that are cabled, allowing the adventurist the possibility to walk along a smooth granite surface at what feels like a 60 degree angle. Its open to all ages, and to any who dares to climb it. This might make it seem pretty safe, and generally it is, but 3 people still slid off that dome last summer to fall to their deaths. Before heading to park my mum gave me an article about it that detailed how the latest victim, a japanese or korean fellow, met his fate. While scaling along the cables his boots lost their grip and he slid down, wrapping around one of the iron polls like a stripper, and being flailed out where he screamed and clawed fruitlessly at the smooth surface until falling off the edge, as dozens of impotent hikers looked on unable to do anything but hope that superman might appear.

No guts no glory.

The hike up to the dome is about 16 miles or so, mostly straight up, so we have to start early. Mum estimates 10-12 hours, I'm guessing 8-10, in the end it took about 9 without any breaks. Because of the length of time we have to start up early, up at 6 to have a coffee and head for the trail. It was about 7.10 am (my camera tells me my first bear photo is at 7.13). We were still near the very beginning of the trail, at the only water fountain station. My mum tells me she's off to use the toilet, so I head for the water fountains to top off our water bottles. The fountain sits by a bridge, with a large rock overhead. I set my walking stick on the rock and sling off my backpack and take out a water bottle. I walk to the fountain and start to fill the bottle. From the bridge four hikers shout out "hey man, look out for the bear". I look up to the rock but can't see above it, I back up slowly keeping my eyes on the rock until I'm on the bridge and I see it there. A brown bear just above where I stood. He climbs down and starts to head for the backpack, I start yelling and hollering at him but he seems unbothered. He comes up to the bag and tears it open, munching on beef jerky and trail mix. I turn to the hikers who are now assembled watching him and ask them to start hollering at the bear on the count 3 . Everyone shouts and the bear picks up the bag and runs off with it. Mum says "my blackberry!!!". We get a lot of pitied faces from the other backpackers, all our water (except the one bottle still in my hands), and all our food are gone, along with the expensive pack, blackberry, and mum's favourite camp shirt.

I'm pissed as hell, if I had a gun I would have shot the bear in the balls before putting him down. I don't really blame the bear per se, he's just a bear, its not like it was personal, but god damn you bear, god damn you.

As we head up the trail I can see the bear down by the river, with the little blue bag underneath of him, having himself a little snack. I want to throw rocks at him, but mum advises me not to piss off a bear.

On the trail we benefit from every sort of kindness from strangers. One pair of american hikers notices us without packs and call out "hey where's your water!" We tell em the the story, the offer us food, water, and the opportunity to pump stream water through their filter. We turn them down, since we still had a lot of water, one of them was named Sherman..."like the tank" he says......

We're hiking up until we reach the backpackers campsite on the trail. This site is for those people wanting to the dome in 2 days instead of one. Some may opt for this option thinking that its "easier" to do it in 2 days, but watching those poor buggers walk uphill for hours with tents and stoves on their backs assured me that is far from the case. However we are happy to find a hiker still in the now empty grounds, who take us to a stream and refills our bottle with his filter pump. He also gives us 2 plastic bottles which he also fills, they were used to carry his wine, the water carries the taste.

The trail winds up and up offering incredible views. It eventually comes to the staircase, stone steps carved up the rock face. The half-dome is so named because it is literally half a dome, imagine a cake shaped like a bald man's head, and slice half off, and you would gain the sense of it. The steps take you partway up, but eventually they end and from there you rely only on the tread of your boots to make your way up. I am instantly aware that I have the wrong footwear, I'm in my blundstones which are technically hiking boots, but certainly not climbing boots, the treads are the wrong shape and not nearly deep enough. I climb up, mostly hunched over to keep my centre of gravity low, my boots slipping a few inches whenever I touch down on some gravel.

We eventually get to the cables on a small flat part of the dome. At the bottom of the cables is a small hole where there is a collection of rotted gloves for handling the cables. Some people wear their own, its a smart idea. We take some gloves and start up, mum ahead of me. The anxiety is terrible, between each pair of iron poles holding the cables, there is a wood plank, not even attached to the poles but simply there by virtue of gravity. The idea is to climb from one plank of wood until the next. Sliding off is easy to imagine, at this angle the momentum from any slip could turn uncontrollable, all that I rely on is the grip of my boots on the rock, and my gloves on the cables. The climb is slow, there's a person on each wood plank and you can only move up when the person in front of you vacates their plank. We reach a point however where mum has no plank. As mum waits for the plank ahead of her to clear, she stands with no plank, and as her foothold loosens, and her gloves start to slide on the cable, she loses her nerve and descends. I come to the same crack, and look up at the long long series of steps ahead, and back down as well. There are many ways to measure the distance I was from the top, one way would be 20 meters or so, but in another sense, it was an incredible stretch. I take a breath, and I take the view, and I make my way back down. If I'm ever there again I'm up for a rematch, with proper boots and gloves I might do better. As for the bear, I'll take his picture with me, just in case we cross paths again....

Sunny Spain

My Ryanair flight goes to Barcelona (Girona). For those unfamiliar, Ryanair uses city names somewhat liberally, for example the flight was from Brussels (Charleloi). However Charleloi is a completely different city, about as far south away from Brussels as the country goes. The Ryanair flight to Vienna (the capital of Austria), actually lands in Bratislava (the Capital of Slovakia).

Most Ryanair airport cities are godawful places which offered up cheap land for airport development. Girona however is a charming small city with a history dating back centuries, so I opt to wander around for the day. Unfortunately anti-terror laws meant that the public lockers had been closed, meaning I had nowhere to stow my enormous backpack, so I walked with it, up hills to the monastery, crossing the bridges and walking the cobbled stones, feeling every ounce of my pack in the sunny heat. All the shops are closed during the hottest part of the day, it’s a clever idea, but when you want to buy a bottle of water its somewhat more irritating. By far the most interesting sight were the Arab baths, which were in fact built by romans.

I meet Tatevik in Barcelona, we had rented a flat in the Gothic area for the few days, right by the Picasso Museum. We spend our days walking to the sights of the cities, the various Gotti buildings, the massive gardens and citadel, and of course the Ramblas. We do a pub crawl and a cooking class, and then end with an afternoon on the beach.

We ride to the airport together, we’re both boarding planes, Tatevik for Tallinn, I’m headed for Madrid. The goodbyes are as hard as ever.


Arriving in Madrid I wander down to my hostel, a very open concept place with lots of friendly travelers. I meet some Americans and a couple Aussies and we walk to the palace, the main avenues, and the parks. Its very stately but much less vibrant. We take the time to see the priceless art the city had collected, but I was sorely disappointed I couldn’t see the Guernica, because some Museums don’t open on Tuesdays (...)

Vive la France

The first time I was at a Bastille day celebration was July 14, 2006, and it was entirely by accident. I was with my Dad in Paris after he visited in England, we took the eurostar for a few days there and happened to be checking out on Sunday which was the 14th. Because we had our train to catch we could only watch the morning parade.

One year on I found myself in Brussels, my mum calling me up asking me if I can meet my sister Caitlin in Paris. She was on a summer school programme, lecturing and touring in several European cities, coupled with some exams for school credit. My mum asks if I can take her shopping, something that the teachers organizing the event had somehow neglected from the itinerary.

I post a note to the NATO interns, mentioning that I’m on my way, asking if anyone else would like to come. I get two takers for the trip, Elisabeth and Angela. The hostel situation is dire, everything is booked, so we just travel without reservations hoping for the best, and luckily the first hostel we visit, a charming one in Montmartre, has free rooms.

On the first night I go to meet a friend of Elisabeth’s who lives in Paris, who’s having a dinner party in his beautiful flat not far from the Eiffel Tower. It’s a stereotypically French affair, 20 something young professionals, mostly in finance, wearing evening suits sitting in a circle in the drawing room, antique furniture and a grand piano covered in wine bottles (our own contribution was particularly “bon marche”). I have to use my French all evening, but the wine helps this. They principally sit around and smoke, then drink wine, and then smoke. All that was missing was the gentle waft of accordion music on the air.

The following day I meet Caitlin at her hotel by les Halles, one of my favourite parts of Paris near the Marais. I tell her that on Sunday many of the shops will be closed so we do some brief shopping before taking groceries down the Champ de Mars, at the foot of the Eiffel Tower for a picnic. It’s a warm sunny day and we lounge in the beauty of the city. I take Caitlin back to her hotel to make her curfew, and then head back to Montmartre. I had called my buddy Ahad earlier who works in Paris, who also lives in Montmartre (on the same street that the fictional character Amelie lived on). He tells us that he’s spending his evening at a Balle des Pompiers, a 2 night celebration in Paris that happens on the Bastille day weekend. On Friday half the firefighters in Paris party it up, on Saturday the other half. The party happens right at the firehall, and so we meet up with Ahad and head down where a full stage is set with a cover band doing Village People and Madonna covers.

Finally its Bastille day, the day starts with the parade down the Champs Elysees, jets flying above streaking the tricolor on the sky, tanks, soldiers, and huge pushy crowds of people. We fetch Caitlin and in the evening we return to the Champs de Mars, and set ourselves up to watch the evening concert and fireworks. The music act is half decent and includes Nelly Furtado, but also some 80’s French pop-rock music icon who puts me to sleep. Luckily I wake in time to see the sky behind the Eiffel Tower light up for 30 amazing minutes. The crowds afterwards were nightmarish. We walk all the way from the Eiffel Tower to Caitlin’s hotel, and by then the metro had sufficiently cleared to allow us to get back.

The final day is a lazy one, having done all the sights. We climb the steps of Notre Dame and look out on Paris, and wander down in front of the Pompidou Centre to see buskers. The weather is so hot that Elisabeth and I even take a cool down in the fountain filled with the works of Tinguely and Niki de Saint Phalle to wind off our day.

Amsterdam

Flat outings weren’t too common, but sitting in our kitchen one day we all just decided it would be charming to spend the weekend in Amsterdam. We leave early on Saturday morning, I forget exactly why I was incredibly hung-over….but I was. I told Madeline, Rickard, and Lillian that I would catch a later train and meet them there, but I managed to clean myself up and haul ass down and meet them on the train platform.
In the evening we wandered down to the red light district, its interesting how the regular patterns of the free market manifest themselves in any industry. In the red light district, a woman sits in her lingerie in a window, a man passes by and inquires the rate, if they come to an arrangement then the curtains are closed and so on. Now in a regular shopping district, one will notice that some properties are more desirable for stores than others, such as a main avenue. The rents on those properties are probably higher, and the type of store usually sells more profitable goods and services. In the red light district, there are girls on the main street by the canal, and the side streets. The side street girls are considerably “down market”. One eventually comes to the niche area, the specialty interest shop (aka one woman was about 300 pounds sitting in her lingerie….)

Amsterdam feels like a city turned into a hostel. There are so many Americans, all with dreadlocks and sandals, lots of old hippies, and lots of buskers. Its still quite beautiful with all the canals, but there’s a certain seediness to the city that even all the pretty art galleries can’t take away.

We stay at the Hans Brinker hostel, a poster proudly adorns one wall, it reads “Attention neat freaks: you are endangering your immune system by denying your body the opportunity to encounter dangerous bacteria. Luckily the Hans Brinker hostel has every bacteria known to man. Reservations: etc etc”

Reims

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I have a Lonely Planet for Western Europe, and in the France section 70% is dedicated to Southern France. Of the 30% dedicated to Northern France, 25% is on Paris. Of the very few destinations considered worth writing about in Northern France, there is Champagne.

Cassandra: I don't believe I've ever had French champagne before...

Benjamin Kane: Oh, actually all champagne is French, it's named after the region. Otherwise it's sparkling white wine. Americans of course don't recognize the convention so it becomes that thing of calling all of their sparkling white champagne, even though by definition they're not.

Wayne Campbell: Ah yes, it's a lot like "Star Trek: The Next Generation". In many ways it's superior but will never be as recognized as the original. (Wayne’s World)

There is no train connection from Brussels to Champagne, luckily Mihalis is a trooper and willing to drive the 3 hours or so each way. We arrive and briefly wander around the Notre Dame church and old city centre, and discover a medieval festival going on, complete with sword fights.

We head straight for the Pomery Champagne House, an estate that I picked because of the unique cellar. Pommery bought this plot of land for what lay underneath, an old Chalk quarry dating back to the roman times. Deep inside these mines he laid down his wine to ferment and become Champagne. The doors to the quarry are in a large central hall, when the guide opens the heavy wooden doors cold air from the mine blows out to us. We walk down the long staircase into the mine, which is liberally decorated with abstract modern art, including a mass of tinfoil pilgrims, and one room with a huge domed structure built of wicker chairs. Above us there is an old chain system, maybe a hundred years old, that used to ferry wicker baskets along to carry the bottles, it has long since broken down. We exit the cellar to sample some of the champagne, and though I chose 3 varieties to try I find the difference among them to be far too subtle for me too detect. As we drive towards Brussels we pass the golden fields of Alsace during a rainstorm and watch a perfect rainbow emerge.

Knokke-Heist

At the end of the train tracks there is a town called Knokke-Heist. If you walk down from the train station you will be on the shore of the North Sea. I spent a day there, one of the last beach worthy days of the whole summer. The day was May 25.