Fuck Yosemite

I spent three hours driving to Yosemite and then three hours driving around the place in search of camping.  The place was booked.  I had arrived at 5 and thought I’d have a lovely evening, setting up camp, watching the sun set over the Half Dome, roasting potatoes on an open fire. I did catch the sunset, though through a car window, amidst bouts of frustrated rage as I toured the parks many campground entryways and viewed the beautiful “Campground Full” signs blocking each one.  So I left.  Went out to the national forest surrounding.  Found a dirt forest service road, drove until I reached a wooded and level turnout, parked and looked at the stars, ate some sourdough bread and went to sleep in my car nervous all along that a bear might smash my windows, hungry for my potatoes and sardines.  I was fine.

I woke up at 5 the next morning and realized that the sun didn’t rise for another hour and a half so I went back to sleep.  When I did finally get up, I drove back into the park, down to the Yosemite Valley, to Camp 4, and waited an hour for the place to open and then another hour in line before I finally got my $5 spot in a camp site shared by 5 other people.  I stashed my food in the bear canister and went off for coffee.

I’m trying to say that my first hours at Yosemite were not a whole lot more than frustrating.

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