JMT start (mile 6 or 7/211)

I chose a tree stump in the shade to finish re-strapping plasticised accoutrements to the outside of my pack. I hadn’t thought out a system beforehand, but aspects were familiar. I’d drained and filled my water bladder, cradling the full gurgling sac on my shoulder, tubing trailing my forearm like I was spiking a bag of IV fluids. With cross-hatched ratchet straps, I secured the sac to my pack, chocked by squishy tent and tarp. The pack itself was basically a UPS “irregular” that needed repackaging. I was trying to use the stump to approach belt level. By the time everything was awkwardly cinched down, the stump was in full sun. Early afternoon in Yosemite – one more drink from a water-fountain and there was nothing else to do but start the JMT. As you may imagine, it was very very hot.
One does not simply… step into wilderness, and the first mile was a baking paved path climbing relentlessly up. Crowded with day tourists, fresh-smelling and garrulous. “You are HEAVY DUTY!” said one gent. “Can I ask, how much does your pack weigh?” queried another. “I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t weigh it… I’m guessing around 60 pounds?” “You are amazing! I’m bitching because he put two beers in my pack!”
“You must be… courageous” said a French accent, I don’t know whether as appraisal or advice. I trudged higher, from shade patch to shade patch, looking up at the iconic outsized cliffs, down at the high-force river. Grinning, despite the heat and the soaking sweat and aerobic pulse rate and the dead weight of the pack. “Girl, you’ve got this!” cheered a meticulously-dressed Asian lady. There’s no hiding in this crowd. I’m overtaken by religious groups, a girl carrying nothing but a cellphone and a face-fan, portly middle-aged gents who stop to sit on rocks and wheeze. “How are you doing?” I ask, smile. “Doing REAL GOOD”.
A woman has sprained her ankle, I offer ibuprofen and sympathy. A guy asks for water. A French woman asks for a blister plaster and I have Compeed at the ready. The French word for blister (also lightbulb) is “ampoule”.
It’s a hard, merciless climb out of the Merced Valley – I tell myself it only gets cooler and lighter from here. Though I can enfer-c’est-les-autres as hard as any other introverted sober divorcee, I’m buoyed by the presence of people. Groups of matching schoolkids ask me how far they are from the carpark, like I’m some sensei of mileage.
The crowd thins and the switchbacks continue. I have never seen a landscape look this. With the cliffs and the rockslides and the general air of geological menace, it reminds me of the most evocative plate in my childhood-favourite Enid Blyton book, The Valley Of Adventure. I don’t remember what happened in that book (likely some at-least-xenophobic derring-do in which the Brits always knew best and were entitled to hearty meals at every juncture), but I remember the etched rock faces, the landslide that sealed off the valley at the perfect time to save our heroes. And now I was in the real-life valley of (mis)adventure, carrying my own snacks and not suspecting anyone foreign of espionage.
By not quite dusk I’d made it past the turnoff for Half Dome, and was allowed to camp. Three guys asked me if I knew if the creek was running to the south. I did not. I found them sitting in a creekside clearing. They said “all yours if you want to camp here”. I walked on, found a sweet spot by massive trees and rocks. Put my pack down. Noticed bear poop. I know it’s a meme about women choosing a bear over a man these days, but I walked north and chose the 3 dudes. Pitched up beside some other tents, occupants already snuggled in bags. At 7,200ft and a perfect temperature, I slept like a log.