Great Outdoors

Yosemite National Park

Escape from Fixation

The beginnings of the road trip buzzed with excitement and extreme fatigue. Although our visit to Yosemite was much anticipated, it coincidentally concluded the busiest week I have ever encountered at Berkeley. Preceding the day trip to the national park, my week consisted of hours of hair-pulling studying and the completion of two major exams that marked the early rumblings of midterm season. Tedious orchestra rehearsals decorated my schedule, and a successful but taxing performance concluded only hours before departure, with another to follow after my return to campus. I managed to wake up, leave my parents’ house in the East Bay Area, and arrive in Berkeley with my car at 5:00AM as scheduled, despite operating on two hours of sleep. Thus, four wanderers headed toward Yosemite National Park in the darkness of an early morning.

Under the light of the rising star, my passengers teased out bits of each other’s characters and floated in and out of sleep. The familiar broad highways led to unexplored county lines and aged towns while the deep navy of the morning passed through an eerie twilight and into a gorgeous sunrise. Winding through endless gleaming fields, the straight, marked roads of civilization became increasingly difficult to maneuver through. As the

ragged trunks of pine trees began to surround every side of the car, our immersion into nature deepened. Gone were the extensive views of grasslands and mountainsides. We had arrived.

Leaving the parking area, we wandered onto a wood- paneled path. Each step brought more of the park’s grand scenery into focus. Piercing blue skies spanned overhead, interrupted only by the jagged outline of the landmark’s famous rock formations. Flowing golden fronds swayed lightly in the tranquil winds, glowing brightly in imitation of the sun’s confident rays. We were lost, but it felt as though we had gotten lost in the right direction, which, in that moment, was no direction at all. The itinerary I had prepared was rendered useless as we allowed ourselves to aimlessly wander in the brisk air of the valley.

Eventually, we began to walk along a paved pathway marked “Lower Yosemite Falls.” The dusty asphalt pathway continued to twist as if it were consciously dodging the massive pines we passed by. A light breeze tousled the branches overhead, allowing needles to float down to where we were. Amid the clean air, leisurely travel pace, and gentle silence of a natural environment, I felt at ease. Refreshed.

Following the instructions of an avid bouldering enthusiast by the name of Ray, I peered curiously through his pair of binoculars. My mouth, unaware of its own actions, hung slightly ajar. Those scaling El Capitan seemed no larger than the ants scurrying across the dirt beneath my feet. How could that be? Were those specks of color not as important and present as I was? If they looked carefully down to the meadow where I stood, self-conscious, would I look just as negligible?

For all the reasons we often lose our self-awareness and empathy—inundation of emotion, lack of mental capacity, or otherwise—I was stunned by the possibility that I am stuck in a mundane tunnel vision, failing to consider any other perspective.

One of us rested on a rock near the car to journal; another, with camera in hand, climbed nimbly up toward the base of Bridalveil Fall; and the remaining two of us lounged near the point where the water flow lost its violence. With giant grins on our faces, we gently touched the chilled water, enjoying the purity it added to the air around us. In an overzealous attempt to relocate, one splashed socks first into a resting pool. Laughter and regretful remarks filled the air, and I was reminded of carefree hikes with my family, happy childhood memories I hadn’t recently had the time to reminisce.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden chill of a transient mist traveling from the main spout, broken and then carried by the wind. We blocked our eyes from the droplets before continuing down the path back to parking. This spot was by far the most highly occupied by fellow explorers, but their company passed rather unnoticed, as if we had found a personal piece of the location to interact within.

As the team moved to our final stop, the famous and often postcarded Tunnel View, my mind ran freely. I was simply in awe of what the world was capable of, so much so that I began to reflect on my troubles as a young student. Relatively considered, my problems are not necessarily invalid, but on a grander scale, I cannot seem to convince myself that my worries— uninteresting midterms, stressful performances, and everything in between—are any more present than the tiny boulderers against the massive stone.

Before my mind could wander too far, I was instructed to pull into a parking area on a cliff overhang. I dodged an offloading motorcoach, slid into the first available parking spot, and exited the car onto a large stone. As far as my eyes could travel, Yosemite seemed to be able to meet them, spanning far more distance than I could have imagined. Suddenly, my life felt unreal. It felt like the first time I had raised my eyes from its focus on the ground before me. Swarms of tourists excitedly conversed in different languages in the background, but my focus was fixated on where the sky met the grayness of the rocks, forming a horizon of its own above the immense sea of muted forest greens. Each formation ducked out of the way for another just behind it, as if waves of curtains were being drawn to reveal the grand stage—a dazzling blue sky. To say I felt as if I was standing on top of the world would not be an exaggeration, as the entirety of the valley we toured sat beneath my gaze.

The feeling of utter insignificance was unparalleled. It was as if the planet was saying, “You are nothing”— words usually delivered with malicious intent that now offered me an unusual amount of comfort. If silence could roar, then the volumes at Yosemite were as such: immensely present, and not in the way which made me feel like I’m missing something, but in a way that calms me. Serenity. Peace.

I have always been one to chase the thrills and chaos of the city, gravitating toward its many activities and opportunities for escape. “The fast pace keeps me occupied and content,” I reassure myself, scoffing at the reticence of a quiet suburban lifestyle. After this breath of a trip, however, I might have to reconsider— perhaps not the entire prospect of a future metropolitan lifestyle, but definitely my own racing mindset. Why do I so crave escape? Should I not be seeking presence in reality instead?

In subsequent days, during which I resumed my usual schedule of booking and then overbooking myself, I questioned my motives with fervent frustration. I watched myself get whisked away by the tumultuous currents of daily doings, buried too deeply in my work to simply exist. The memories of those hours in Yosemite, lingering as photos or sensory moments, reminded me that my problems—not large enough relative to the magnificence of nature to be the center of the universe’s attention—should not grow to be the center of my own existence.

Words: Anna Fang

Photos: Apple Cuneo