Yosemite

The drive from Monterey to Yosemite takes about 5 hours, oscillating in and out of pockets of heat. Sometimes the skies are San Francisco grey, and at others you can get burnt just brushing the bonnet of a car. Neil Young, 'Heart of Gold', comes on the radio, and suddenly we are in a film - neverending roads through cornfields, a dervish of dust like a mini tornado, tumbleweed, and, nearing the end of the journey, a transformation into lush green countryside, reminiscent, would you believe it, of English parkland (except bigger and with more rodeos). The mother and the father have a minor altercation concerning the safest route into the area, but the father triumphs in the end with the navigational support of Gloria the GPS. Our lodge sits on the outskirts of Yosemite with a balcony view of the foothills. On arrival we encounter an Australian perched behind a camera and tripod in anticipation of some evening hummingbirds. Just as in Carmel the evening before, the parental unit could have done without supper if it wasn't for a certain degree of dissent from the idiotic corner. We eat at a local restaurant/sports bar called the 'Hitchin Post', dipping a toe ever so tentatively into hicksville. The idiot's chef salad is the size of a weekly shop. The waitress examines the father in a concerned sort of way when he gives up on half his burger and chips. The first stage of the NBA final is on the widescreen TV above our heads (Miami Heat v. Dallas Mavericks). The idiot feigns excitement, claiming to have 'got into' basketball over the course of the year.

The next morning, after a solid breakfast at the lodge, we leave for Yosemite at 9am. The owners of the lodge ensure there is a vat of coffee on the kitchen table from 6am onwards; our get-up-and-go is humbled at the thought of those earlybirds. Although judging by the number of guests who also take a 'late' breakfast at the same time as us, I think the clouds may have discouraged even the enthusiasts. Yup, we only have one day in Yosemite, and it chooses to be cloudy.

Having paid our entry fee and entered the park we drive straight to Glacier Point, just in case the weather worsens over the course of the day. The father says that some landscapes are pleasing to the eye because they remind us, via some magical atavism, of the world experienced by our early-age relatives. Yosemite is y'know kinda like that. In a similar way to the idiot, I tend to adopt this silly idiom of slang when I see something beautiful and want to talk about it. One day we might grow out of this and learn to be proud of sincerity. But, for now, this is how I am going to describe the view from Glacier Point: god. damn. sexy.

Never before have I been so conscious of the impulse to contain memory; people look at Yosemite Falls through the screen of a digital camera more frequently than they look at Yosemite Falls. I'm not preaching, just sayin. I spend most of my time on Glacier Point thinking about how I am going to write about it later and what words I can use in what order, and how they might justify their existence.

After the 'tunnel view' and a few other stop offs we pause for a brief lunch in the village, during which time the rain starts. The bottom of Yosemite Falls nearly makes the mother burst into tears. We take more pictures of the family in front of the falls, pulling faces because there's nothing worth saying anymore. For some reason the idiot has come to love shitty weather (a circumstantial love after a year in Portland?) and Yosemite in the rain, to her, is the best thing in the world.

We listen to Elvis Radio, live from Graceland, on the hour-long drive out of the park. We drink red wine from Sonoma when we get back to the Lodge. Sandra Bullock romcom on the telly. Blah blah blah, I think I'm going to bugger off now and abandon this sloppy post.

Consette x