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Read about Joanne’s prior adventures at Yosemite and Half-Dome
In the wilderness, a day is like a year. An encounter can last in the memory for a lifetime.
Was it the quiet mountains, deep forests, vast sky, and the lack of human presence for miles and miles, that made the wilderness experience so pristine, indelible, and indescribable?
I hiked and camped in the high country north of Yosemite Valley in May 2025, where the snow-melt creeks birth the torrential Yosemite Falls that pours down almost 3,000 feet, at a 90-degree angle to the valley floor. After all the day hikers descended the same Upper Yosemite Trail back to the Valley, I was the only one trekking the opposite direction into the wilderness, by myself, carrying 38 lbs of backpacking gear.
Some of my reasons for going to the wilderness are to get away from the noisy world of news, digital manipulations, and the “civilized” way of living. And to get away from people, to find solitude in being alone with nature.
But when I was there in the wilderness by myself, interestingly what was the most memorable was the human connection when encountering other wilderness hikers, in addition to a longing for togetherness with the loved ones back home (or the concept of it). I met about five individuals over 3 days. Most were solo hikers like myself, and we only chatted briefly when passing each other. Most of us would stop and exchange where we were going, where we hiked from, where our homes were. With some we exchanged contact info, wanting to maintain contact afterwards (but no one ever did). These encounters were not meant to last outside the mountains. After we all returned to the civilized world, the wilderness became just memories.
Except one hiker from Germany with whom I shared a few miles together, and camped one night near each other in separate tents. His name was Julian, a police officer in his 40s. He used to work at a backpacking gear shop. We both were into camping and hiking gear.
I first met him when I heard footsteps from behind me while walking in a forest. I saw his eyes were all red. He said that the sunscreen got into his eyes from sweat and he could hardly see while his eyes were stinging with irritation. As soon as we approached a babbling brook, he threw his head into the water to cool his eyes.
It just happened that I had brought a little eye drop for allergies. I dripped a couple of drops into each of his eyes, and told him: “Don’t rub your eyes any more! Leave them alone!” Immediately, the eye drops worked. In a couple of hours, his eyes improved.
When we crossed rushing creeks over fallen trees, Julian would firmly hold my hand to help me balance while walking on the top of a fallen tree across the water (which was hard with a bulky backpack on my back). This way of crossing water was so much faster and easier than what I would had have to do by myself: Take off the backpack, change boots into sandals, tie the boots onto the backpack, strap the backpack on my back again, wade through the water with my trekking poles, then unfasten the backpack, change back into boots, tie the sandals back on the pack, and continue.
The year before, I fell into the creek after slipping on a rock in the water when I was with a group of young people hiking towards the high Sierras. The wet clothes and soaked backpack weighed a lot more. Two young men helped me carry some of my gear after that fall. I learned that I would rather take my sweet time, crossing the water in that painstakingly slow way, than risk falling into the creek when I am in the wilderness by myself.
Wilderness also attracts the “extreme loners”. One young woman with a backpack looked so uncomfortable on a shared narrow trail walking towards us, averting her eyes while nervously passing us. That seemed like extreme shyness or borderline anti-social.
This unexpected companionship with Julian came to an end when the next day, after we hiked to the top of North Dome, he needed to go in a different direction.
In the wilderness, friendship and human connection was as random, detached, and pure as the snowmelt water splashing down the creek. It happened without expectation, thought, intention, or attachment. That environment made human interactions simple and genuine. Strangers automatically look out for others. Helping each other came so naturally.
I, too, found true joy and satisfaction that I could help others, either with a few mosquito repellent wipes for a young lad who was badly attacked by mosquitos, or with my eye drops for Julian.
The purity of human connection, be it friendship, altruism, love, and the pulling of the heart strings in any shape or form but so randomly that it cannot be categorized or quantified – all of the above, and none of the above.
But it is always a personal endeavor to hike one’s own journey to the destination. Just like in life, we each must take one step ahead of another to reach our own destiny. The journey is my own. It is better to share part of it with another, but no one can do it for me.
In a sense, wilderness backpacking is like a pilgrimage. More than the muscle mass that is strengthened, it is the relationship with myself, and with the Divine, that is soul-searchingly, and soulfully tested, sought, and strengthened.
In the wilderness, the gratitude to the Almighty is unleashed uninhibitedly. The grandeur calls for a deep howling to the vastness: GOD! THANK YOU! I LOVE YOU! – That’s the least I can say and do for the Creator, for the breathtaking beauty that ceaselessly awes me.
In the wilderness, the truth comes to me. It is always many steps ahead of me. It reveals itself to me.
I wrote down my memories as soon as I returned home, with about 12 pages of raw materials. This is a distilled version after almost two months. I hope to organize and publish the entire story some day, into a book. As a photographer, reviewing and editing the photos I took is another aspect of completing my journey and sharing it with others who cannot be there.
This, I will always remember: The awe of facing the silent presence of Half Dome, ONLY viewable from the steep and treacherous trail across the Valley from it, only at a particular stretch on the trail while hiking the entire 2,600 feet down over 6-7 miles. I felt like I was in the silent presence of God. I was so awestruck that I could hardly move my feet.
This, I will always remember: The genuine admiration from the way some young men looked at me, after they struggled up the 3,000 height without carrying weight like my 38 lbs of backpack, and saw me about to venture into the vast wilderness by myself. I will never forget the look in their eyes.
This, I will always remember: Among so many hundreds of people on the crowded Valley trail, search and rescue volunteers spotted me from all these day-hikers and tourists, and asked me while showing a photo of a missing young woman: “Did you see her up in the high country?” They knew without asking me that I just came back from the high country, just by looking at what I was wearing and carrying. I was asked twice by two different S&R teams. I felt honored that they recognized me as a true pro. I was proud of the fact that I have finally earned this stature and respect: a pro backpacker.
Now, I have seen Half Dome from all sides: Top, bottom, front, both sides, and back.
– The most unimpressive side of Half Dome was just a bald head from behind, when I backpacked into the southern territory from the Valley.
– The most viewed west side of Half Dome has a “beak” or “lip” on top, which is what all the tourists see from the Valley. This side is even more awesome when climbing up to Glacier Point. From the top of Yosemite Falls, this side of Half Dome stands out against the background of snow-covered peaks.
– When Half Dome is viewed from the east side (on the way to Clouds Rest which is 1,000 feet taller than Half Dome) the top of Half Dome looks like a turtle.
– The frontal view of Half Dome is perhaps the most awe-striking, from North Dome, and at a certain point on the way down more than 2,000 feet on the Snow Creek Trail. I personally felt face-to-face with a soul-disturbing presence.
– Climbing all the way to the top is a different experience that I wrote about two years ago.
Imagine Yosemite Valley without Half Dome. It is nice to have a couple of waterfalls, and other slabs of granite like North Dome, Clouds Rest, and El Capitan. But it is like a table without a centerpiece. A symphony without a theme. A flock of sheep without a shepherd. The solar system without the sun.
Am I going back again to the wilderness, by myself? – I don’t know. The wilderness beckons me. Of course it is better to go with someone to share the experience with and to look after each other, but there has to be mutual respect and shared values. Maybe I will be lucky again to encounter a nice gentleman like Julian in the wilderness, even though that companionship only lasted less than ⅕ of my adventure. I’d rather go solo than with someone who is not a fit. Wilderness backpacking is not a place to get to know someone from scratch, and certainly not ideal for dating. Wilderness can be life threatening if you are not adequately trained. Every year hikers die from falling off trails, or being washed away and drowned when crossing fast moving water, or just from not knowing what they are doing. It is definitely not for the faint of heart. If I backpack again on my own, it will be with great preparation, and with my Garmin Mini 2 that has an SOS button in case of life threatening emergencies. Here are a few more lines from reflecting on this experience, as a poem of mine:
In the wilderness
A day is like a year.
It allows me
to receive messages
without noise that interferes.
To be in the wilderness, alone,
To get away from all attachments,
Is just to return
With more intensity of the heart
to home and companionship.
The wilderness intensifies the longing
For the concept of a soul mate,
An otherworldly togetherness,
a spiritual and physical belonging.
Divinity invites humility.
Completeness is nothingness.
Together is apart.
Apart is together.
If only I surrender
To thy signal,
To thy calling,
To thy rendering.
Wilderness
I come to thee.
©Joanne Z. Tan all rights reserved.
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