The best kept secret in Yosemite National Park lies 8,000 feet high in the sweeping majesty and stunning silence of its “High Country.” Far away from the bustling tourist crowds in the Valley, the Yosemite high country is a place almost wholly removed from the postcard images one finds on the Valley floor. In the high country pine trees abound, marmots scurry across rocks, temperatures reach freezing at night, and alpenglow casts purple-pink hues at sunset that will stir your soul to a grand cacophony of emotion. And if you want to dive even deeper into solitude, you backpack in October, when the visiting season dies down and the daytime hiking weather is near perfection.

My journey into the high country started when my cousin suggested we go backpacking within a matter of days. My cousin, a Stanford grad from San Francisco, had never before done a trip through the high country, even though he has spent much of his free time over the years backpacking through remote areas, often without a tent. So over the next few days I made a list, checked it twice, and loaded up my car with gear and set out for the Bay Area.

We originally planned on leaving for Yosemite at night, but the California traffic backed me up and I ended up arriving at his house at night. So I slept on the couch, showered in the morning (a must before any extended trip), and we headed out to Yosemite. We made it to the Valley later in the afternoon, where I parked my car at Curry Village and then hopped into my cousin’s Hyundai, before driving up towards the trailhead for May Lake. We decided that it would be best to leave my car in the Valley floor, drive together to the high country, and then end our backpacking trip in the Valley floor, from which I would then drive him back to his car.

By the time we parked the car at the trailhead for May Lake/Mount Hoffmann it was late afternoon, and the clock was ticking to make it to the top of the mountain before sundown. (If anyone plans on using this technique of leaving one car in the Valley, account for 45 minutes of time just driving up into the high country.) We quickly gathered up our gear and noticed that I had left my trekking poles in my car, so my cousin generously decided that we would each use one of his trekking poles. A small hiccup when everything was all said and done. The gun I chose to carry for this trip was my Sig Sauer M11-A1, which later proved to be a tad bit heavy on top of the gear I was already rucking in my Gregory Baltoro 65 backpack.

The hike to May Lake, the first stop on the way up to Mount Hoffmann, is an easy one, and a short route to warm up for the hiking ahead. Once at May Lake we stopped to admire its stillness, and as the sun began to set, my cousin filtered out some water from the lake for our canteens. There were a few other people around, but they were there just to admire the beauty of the lake, and were not planning on hiking up Mount Hoffmann. If anyone does want an easy hike in the high country, May Lake would be my recommendation, as it only takes 45 minutes or so to reach the lake with minimal incline.

We began the ascent up Mount Hoffmann with little light left. I looked at the sun setting in the distance, and turned to see perhaps the best example of alpenglow I had ever seen in my life. Pink, purple, and orange triggered feelings of nostalgia and awe. It was as if we were at the edge of the earth, and all of time had reached its climax. I took out my camera and snapped one photo, which turned out to be just the right shot to capture the memory.

We were barely halfway up the mountain when we lost light. My cousin suggested we take out our headlamps and continue the climb. We stopped, put them on, turned them on, and continued into the darkness. The temperature was dropping rapidly, so I threw on my Columbia windbreaker with light insulation over my grey base layer, which I had been hiking in. With the amount of movement we were doing on the ascent, the temperature was noticeable but insignificant. What was significant, though, was the darkness. At 10,800 feet, there was no light except for the stars, and as we neared the top my cousin told me to watch out: right next to us was a gaping hole in the side of the mountain, partially covered by giant boulders, and there was just enough light to see that it dropped off thousands of feet below. This is how people die climbing mountains.

After losing the trail and navigating up the mountain in darkness (something everyone should try once in their life), we reached the summit. The top of Mount Hoffmann is perhaps one of the eeriest places I have ever been. It is flat at the top, resembling both the shape and area of a football field, and it is absolutely dead quiet. No other people were up there. Outside of a few gnarled shrubs shaped by the wind, we were the only life. As mountain climbers will tell you, some of these summits will make you feel like you are on a different planet, and Mount Hoffmann was no exception. Although there is virtually no life at the top due to its elevation (the pine trees stop growing near May Lake), the deafening silence heightens your senses and makes you feel as if someone or something is watching you behind every pile of rocks, waiting to jump out. In fact, later on, my cousin woke up in the middle of the night and walked off to pee. On his way back to the tents he froze in his tracks because he saw a shining metal object some way ahead of him. Not knowing what to do, he started thinking, and then realized that it was just the bear canister he had placed there earlier. But this sort of experience is an example of how on-alert a foreign planet like Mount Hoffmann can make someone. Any little unnatural shape or color can trigger instinctual alarm bells deep in the human psyche.

Before that late-night fright ever happened for my cousin, we had to set up our tents, which was perhaps the worst part of the entire trip, because of the freezing temperatures. Once you stop moving, the cold comes over you within minutes, and any moisture left on your body makes it worse. All I could think about was getting inside my sleeping bag and turning my brain off. Just changing into a new set of base layers was a task, because stripping off clothing fully exposes your body to the chill of the night. That night, I woke up at least twice due to the cold, partly due to the broken zipper on the vintage Marmot sleeping bag I was borrowing from my cousin, which he purchased from a homeless man on the streets (true story). I was using synthetic base layers on this trip, but I would recommend quality merino wool base layers for any sort of serious cold weather, and to avoid odor on extended trips. I like the Smartwool NTS 250 for its fit and warmth.

The morning sun was welcome, and we were soon able to wear shirts. We repacked, admired the view for some time, read the Bible, took some photos, and then headed towards our next stop: Sunrise Lakes.

On the way down the mountain we encountered two hikers coming up and some marmots coming out from underneath rocks. Once back down on the trail in the pines, a sense of normalcy returned, and the birds could be heard chirping.

We arrived at Sunset Lakes early, at least for us. These are not large lakes by any means, but they are a decent size, and we stopped at one to set up camp, rest, and take in the serenity. We refilled the water bladder and watched the light on the trees change as the sun got ready to set. I washed my face with the freezing water. A pit had already been dug for a fire in our spot, so we recycled it and lit a fire of our own. Without the time crunch of trying to make it to the top of a mountain before sundown, Sunset Lakes was an awesome spot to rest at for the night. That night was my younger brother’s birthday, and my cousin had cell reception, so we called him to wish him a happy birthday. A memorable moment on the trip.

The following morning we woke up late, spent time in nature, and then packed up that afternoon to continue on to Cloud’s Rest. The day of hiking up to Cloud’s Rest contained perhaps the hardest hiking of the trip; this may have been due to fatigue from Days 1 and 2, but there was also a lot of incline hiking, especially right before Cloud’s Rest, which offers a 9,900 feet panoramic view of Yosemite. As we approached Cloud’s Rest I became a bit surprised and apprehensive: it looked like a tiny little sliver of a ridge. How was my fatigued self with a 25 lb. pack supposed to walk across it? Once there, it is very narrow, and you must be very careful, but fortunately it was not as tiny as it looked from a distance. My cousin, being the daredevil he is, ran along the edge, jumping from boulder to boulder. An absolute nutcase.

As we started making our way down from Cloud’s Rest the trees returned, and almost as soon as we had left we were back in a pine forest. This stretch of the trip was the beginning of our descent back down into the Yosemite Valley, and that night we would be stopping at one of the campsites on the way: Little Yosemite Valley.

Little Yosemite Valley is a proper camping area, just above Vernal Falls and behind Half Dome, with first-come first-serve campsites. While not as “off the grid” as the other locations we had camped at the last two nights, Little Yosemite Valley was a welcoming spot alongside the beautiful Sunrise Creek, with a warm, lively, communal environment. Not to mention a literal warmer environment, as the temperatures were noticeably more pleasant. Things also felt more “normal” here, as people were walking around, jumping in the small lake, and there was even a building with restrooms. Most of the campsites were empty and it was certainly not like being in the Valley proper, but it still retained some of that vibe. If I wanted to give someone a good Yosemite backpacking experience without doing a full route of backpacking, I would hike with them up to Little Yosemite Valley and stay there for a night or two; maybe even hike up to the Half Dome Cables (if we could get permits).

As the sky turned a deep blue above the towering pines I thought about the future, and a rush of optimism came over me and sat with me for the rest of the night. We later used the Jetboil to heat up water and mix ramen with freeze-dried lasagna in our metal camping bowls, which is an awesome combination if anyone wants to try it. No fires were allowed, and with the end of the trip on our minds we sat talking about our future. We then went into our tents and fell asleep underneath the trees, with the forest soundscape surrounding us. An awesome experience.

The next day was our last day of the trip. We packed up, and as we did a giant spider with spots slowly crawled out of my backpack. That was the moment I learned to keep my backpack well sealed. When you’re out in nature for a certain amount of time things like that cease to bug you, no pun intended, but I still wouldn’t want to deal with the rash of a spider bite on my hand. Moving on from the experience, I threw on my pack and we headed off towards Vernal Falls on the John Muir Trail, and then the Mist Trail.

Vernal Falls was nothing but a trickle this time of year, but it was still a sight to behold along with Emerald Pool and the Merced River. There was a sense of accomplishment within me as we neared the base of the Valley; a feeling of immovable solitude and optimism. My cousin walked faster once we ended the Mist Trail at the Valley floor; I’m guessing he felt finished with the trip and wanted to get to the car, which was not far off at Curry Village.

When we arrived, my car was covered in pine needles and dust left behind by other vehicles driving through the Curry Village parking lot. Back in the Valley it felt like we had arrived back in civilization, but with mainly 20 and 30-somethings like ourselves there to backpack and rock climb. We unloaded our packs into my car, but the best part was taking off my boots and starting the engine, knowing that the long journey was finished.

We then drove the 40 minutes or so back up to my cousin’s car where we had begun, and parted ways, knowing that it might be a good while until we saw each other again. I am not a fan of goodbyes, and we were both happy to be done, which made it easier to go our separate directions back home: him heading out on the 120 back to the Bay Area, and myself heading back down again into the Valley and then onto Wawona Road out through the south exit.

As I drove out of the park I saw for the first time the incredible Tunnel View in my rear view mirror, and stopped to take a photo with my black and white film. A fitting way to end the trip. There is something in the spirit of Yosemite that promotes positivity and leaves you wanting more, but for now I was done. I drove out of the park and soon entered the sprawling beauty of Central California’s farmland as the sun prepared to set. Somewhere around Fresno I turned on the radio and heard a talk show host recapping the Presidential debate. Normalcy was returned.