As illustrated in the informative and mostly factual table below, there are three ways to reach Yosemite's North Dome.

With no intention of driving out to Porcupine Flat and never having been a fan of Papa Bear, I went with his Younger Brother.

Because I wanted to get the climbing done before the midday heat arrived, M and I tried to get a somewhat early start. We took the shuttle from Yosemite Village (Stop 4) to Camp 4 (Stop 7) and were at the trail head by eight o'clock.

The hiking conditions to Columbia Rock were noticeably different from those in April. Instead of a trail with constant traffic, we only bumped into three hikers along the way. Instead of darkening skies, there was growing morning light, which made photographing the valley difficult.

This was M's first strenuous hike in over a year (due to a foot injury), so we took it slowly. She went all the way through the first few switchbacks above the middle cascade before turning back. I was sad to see her go, but was proud she had made it that far.

I continued up the rocky and sandy switchbacks and reached the waterfall overlook by eleven. I didn’t venture to the edge like old John Muir, but got close enough to snap a few stomach-plummeting shots.

I dawdled at the top, enjoying the solitude while I could. For thirty minutes, not another soul appeared.

Knowing my destination was still five miles away, I picked up the pace, rapidly crossing a wooden truss bridge and following a winding, uphill granite trail towards Yosemite Point.

Like Columbia Rock, Yosemite Point is nothing more than a metal rail secured to an outcropping. How secure it really is, I couldn't say. I wasn't willing to lean against it to test the workmanship. I stood there longer than I expected, though, partly due to the sight of the trail below and the Lost Arrow spire.

From there, I continued on the granite trail to North Dome.

A quick aside: I'm not a fan of granite trails. The only indication of a path is usually a strategically placed rock (a.k.a. a marker). Of course, not all rocks are markers and that's where I usually run into trouble. I sometimes read too much into the rocks - perceiving patterns that aren't really there, divining direction from "markers" more likely placed by a cunning mountain lion than by a person.

With the help of a couple who had hiked the Baby Bear, I managed to stay on the trail. The path soon entered a forest and began an undulating course - down to Indian Gulch Creek, up a ridge, down to Lehamite Creek, up a ridge, down to Royal Arches Creek, and up another ridge. It was like riding a rollercoaster in the woods.

The trail emerged from the forest and became a cluster of granite switchbacks. At the top, I came across an Australian fellow who had just hiked the Papa Bear. He happily told me I only had a half-mile to go and then pointed to what was obviously North Dome.

I thanked him and raced to the summit. The view at the end was more breathtaking than I imagined. There was the valley, Illilouette Falls, Tenaya Canyon, Clouds Rest...

And, of course, Half Dome, front and center...

I spent about fifteen minutes at the top. I wanted to stay longer, but it was already two in the afternoon. Knowing the hike down would take nearly as long as the hike up (due to the steep and sandy switchbacks), I reluctantly left the dome.

I wish I could say the return journey was uneventful, with only one or two unremarkable slips, but somewhere between the Upper and Middle Falls, I took a tumble worth mentioning.

I had just achieved a comfortable downhill rhythm, using my poles for extra balance, when I came upon on particularly bad swarm of mosquitoes. Instead of planting my right pole, I swatted at one of the buggers while taking a step.

My right foot went out from under me, spinning me around. The sky fell away. My poles scattered and my right arm shot out, grasping air. My forearm scraped the rocks as I twirled and fell. The sweatshirt and snacks in my backpack cushioned the fall - the gummy bears and cookies getting the brunt of it.

Dazed, I ran a quick diagnostic. Beyond the scratched and bruised arm (call it a bad brush with Brother Bear) and a tightened right calve muscle, nothing else seemed to be amiss. I stood up slowly, brushed myself off, and resumed the descent with more caution and less mosquito-swatting.

I reached the valley floor in one piece around 5:30 p.m., just in time to see the shuttle leaving Stop 7 and heading for Stop 8 at the Yosemite Lodge.

Because I had promised to meet M at the village before six, my rattled brain figured my only chance of making it in time was to catch the shuttle.

Visitors in Camp 4 that day saw a grimy hiker sprinting through camp, crossing the road, and running through the Lodge parking lot to leap aboard a shuttle.

It was a good two-hundred-yard dash that I didn't think was in me. Thirty minutes later, my legs informed me that, in fact, I hadn't had it in me. I had actually purchased the dash on credit and would be paying for it the rest of the evening at an exceptionally high PAPR (post-adrenaline pain rate).

You can check out more photos from the hike on Flickr.