I’m not usually afraid of heights. Normally, I relish the view from an exposed cliff. I’ve climbed 280-foot Douglas-fir trees and swayed in the breeze.
But this Saturday, standing 3,500 feet above Yosemite Valley at Taft Point, I found myself a little bit nervous. Actually, it was just about the scariest place I’ve ever been.
Earlier that day, I’d stood surprisingly unmoved with a whole crowd of others at Glacier Point, each of us taking identical pictures of Half Dome. It wasn’t until I walked up Sentinel Dome that I really enjoyed the place. Apparently, I need to hike to a view to properly appreciate it.
To reach Taft Point, we hikers had floundered through snowfields and downed trees, comparing notes along the way: “Is that a trail over there?” Yosemite has had 178% of normal snowpack this year; many of the routes at 8,000 feet are still buried under dirty snow, pocked with pine needles and mud. Only the adventurous – from babies to grandmothers – make it to the cliffs and fissures of Taft Point.
Someone once asked why I value bringing young people to the wilderness. Besides the obvious – it’s beautiful, it’s educational – I keep coming back to one answer: “The dangers are real.”
I’ve driven students to Six Flags (with its fake sequoia trees), where they’re happy to spin upside down above the crowds below. When the same students visit the real Sequoia National Park, they’re just as fearless: they’ll jump to a rock in the middle of a swirling torrent (drowning is Sequoia’s number one cause of death), or climb over the railings on a fogged-in Moro Rock, unconvinced of invisible drop-offs. They have guts – useful on roller coasters – but no sense of real danger.
Recently, I went to Disneyland with my younger daughter and her girlfriend. Despite my doubts – too many people, nothing “real” – it was fun. I enjoyed the curves on Thunder Mountain (far milder than the rides at Six Flags) and drenched my clothes on that terrifying fifty-foot Splash Mountain plunge: if millions have survived it (I told myself), it must be safe. This was at midnight, our final ride; afterwards, we dripped our way back to the motel, laughing the whole time.
But this Saturday, standing 3,500 feet above Yosemite Valley at Taft Point, I found myself a little bit nervous. Actually, it was just about the scariest place I’ve ever been.
No ranger reminded me to step back from the edge. No fence defined a safety zone along the cliff. For the first few minutes, I had the place entirely to myself – just me, a raven, El Capitan, Yosemite Falls, and one of the most amazing drop-offs in the world. A bit shaky, I stepped up to the one short span of railing and tested its solidity. When the next hiker appeared, she did the same.
Earlier that day, I’d stood surprisingly unmoved with a whole crowd of others at Glacier Point, each of us taking identical pictures of Half Dome. It wasn’t until I walked up Sentinel Dome that I really enjoyed the place. Apparently, I need to hike to a view to properly appreciate it.
To reach Taft Point, we hikers had floundered through snowfields and downed trees, comparing notes along the way: “Is that a trail over there?” Yosemite has had 178% of normal snowpack this year; many of the routes at 8,000 feet are still buried under dirty snow, pocked with pine needles and mud. Only the adventurous – from babies to grandmothers – make it to the cliffs and fissures of Taft Point.
Someone once asked why I value bringing young people to the wilderness. Besides the obvious – it’s beautiful, it’s educational – I keep coming back to one answer: “The dangers are real.”
I’ve driven students to Six Flags (with its fake sequoia trees), where they’re happy to spin upside down above the crowds below. When the same students visit the real Sequoia National Park, they’re just as fearless: they’ll jump to a rock in the middle of a swirling torrent (drowning is Sequoia’s number one cause of death), or climb over the railings on a fogged-in Moro Rock, unconvinced of invisible drop-offs. They have guts – useful on roller coasters – but no sense of real danger.
Recently, I went to Disneyland with my younger daughter and her girlfriend. Despite my doubts – too many people, nothing “real” – it was fun. I enjoyed the curves on Thunder Mountain (far milder than the rides at Six Flags) and drenched my clothes on that terrifying fifty-foot Splash Mountain plunge: if millions have survived it (I told myself), it must be safe. This was at midnight, our final ride; afterwards, we dripped our way back to the motel, laughing the whole time.The difference between that safety-inspected thrill and a national park is extreme. On the whole, most people do survive parks – they recognize the risks and remain cautious. Children who grow up with real dangers learn to move carefully, to pay attention to their surroundings. They learn responsibility for their own safety. Those who’ve been protected from all but “safe” thrills may not recognize real danger; convinced they’re invincible, they take foolish risks.
When I first approached Taft Point, its one small railing seemed intrusive. But this railing, unlike the wall at Glacier Point, is different. Instead of catching careless tourists, it reassures shaky hikers, allowing them to approach the edge and peer into the abyss – and then to explore the rest of the unguarded cliff top, pondering nature in all its breath-taking dangerousness.
It’s a danger that’s worth respecting. And long may that danger remain.
When I first approached Taft Point, its one small railing seemed intrusive. But this railing, unlike the wall at Glacier Point, is different. Instead of catching careless tourists, it reassures shaky hikers, allowing them to approach the edge and peer into the abyss – and then to explore the rest of the unguarded cliff top, pondering nature in all its breath-taking dangerousness.
It’s a danger that’s worth respecting. And long may that danger remain.
