Snowshoeing in Yosemite: Dewey Point

Three weeks ago, M and I visited Yosemite to get in one last snowshoe walk before Badger Pass closed for the season. We arrived late on Friday night. The drive normally takes 3.5 hours, but due to heavy traffic on Highway 152 and road construction in the park (where El Portal Road and 120 meet), it took five long hours. The delay in the park alone was thirty minutes. We spent the time with the car in park, watching the guy in front of us empty his trunk and clean his golf clubs by the glow of our headlights.

Once we were able to move, we made a beeline for Curry Village, which was packed. We had no trouble checking in, but getting through the parking lot was a nightmare. At the far end, we were forced to stop because a large group of people were blocking the way. There were perhaps twenty or thirty Asian college-aged kids hanging out. At first, they didn't seem aware of us, but after a few seconds, the group slowly parted to let us through.

After a few more minutes of hunting, I found a spot at the opposite end of the lot. It was nowhere near our cabin, but it was also nowhere near the group. As I lugged our gear and food from the car, I made a wish that we wouldn't run into them for the rest of the weekend. That wish would go unfulfilled.

On Saturday, after grabbing coffee and bagels, we caught the early bus to Badger Pass. We strapped on our snowshoes, took a look at the map, and chose Dewey Point as our destination. It was a beautiful day -- sunny and clear -- and we figured the view from the valley rim would be amazing.

We started trekking towards Glacier Point Road, following the trail that borders the parking lot. Hardly anybody was on the slopes or the trails. We were thinking it would be a quiet journey to the point, when we stumbled upon the same group of twenty-somethings we had encountered the night before. This time, all of them were sitting the middle of the trail, putting on their snowshoes.

I didn't want to risk stomping on somebody with my snowshoes (accidentally or intentionally), so I gave the group a wide berth, trudging around them to reach Glacier Point Road. As they disappeared from sight, I started pushing our pace. I told M, "Let's go. I have a feeling they're going to Dewey, too, and I want five minutes of peace when we get there if we can manage it." As a result, I only took one photo along the way.

The first mile was an easy stroll along the groomed road. We were just getting onto the Dewey Point Meadow Ski Trail when I heard laughter and random shouting coming well down the trail behind us. We pressed through the meadow at a comfortable clip and for a second I thought we had increased our lead. But just as we were leaving the meadow, I heard the laughter again and it was closer than before. The laughter was followed by a few minutes of silence, which was broken by the sound of somebody imitating an ambulance siren.

At this point, the trail was growing steeper and the pace we were maintaining was starting to seem ridiculous. Why were we rushing through this beautiful landscape and ruining our experience? Were five minutes of peace at the destination worth two hours of misery during the journey? Of course, that's how I articulate our feelings three weeks after the fact. At the time, M stated the sentiment much more succinctly. "This sucks," she said. I agreed.

We decided to stop fighting the inevitable. We slowed down and allowed the group to overtake us. Less than a mile from Dewey Point, the first of the pack passed us. The leader, a serious-looking young man, took a second to warn us that a group of twenty or thirty others were coming up behind us.

(An aside: I should disclose that my disdain for large groups stems from deep-rooted guilt. My first trail experiences were group hikes. I'm not talking about small groups of ten or so. I'm talking about massive groups of forty or more. The whole noisy lot of us would chug down the trail, steamrolling over every lone hiker or hiking pair we came across. We didn't think about how loud or obnoxious we were, or how we were possibly ruining other people's experiences by our behavior, but I realize it now. So every time I encounter a large group, I'm reminded of those early hikes and a deep sense of shame wells up inside.)

Soon enough, we were at Dewey Point and the view was everything I had hoped for.

As a bonus, the wind gusts that usually sweep across the point were missing. We were able to sit near the edge and enjoyr the view without freezing or getting blown off the mountain. We grabbed a spot by one of the few trees along the rim and soaked in the sight of Half Dome, Ribbon Falls, and El Capitan.

The nearby rocks were surprisingly warm and I found one that was long and flat and had a gentle downward slope, perfect for a five-minute nap. Like a dork, I nicknamed it my bedrock.

After a short while, the group, which had been occupying the point, gathered their belongings and departed. Just for memory's sake, one of the guys in the group gained a great deal of satisfaction by repeatedly pretending to fall over the edge and scaring the girls around him. While I'm glad nothing serious happened due to his horsing around, I would be lying if I didn't admit a small part of me was disappointed he didn't slip. Perhaps a short drop would have knocked some sense into him.

After they left, we ran to the point. The top was clear of snow, which made scrambling easy. Finally, I got my five minutes of peace at Dewey Point and I spent them taking in the vast scenery around us...

and below us...

All told, we spent more than thirty minutes at Dewey Point. Reluctantly, we made our way back to Badger Pass. We only encountered a few people on the return trip, all of them heading in the opposite direction. By the time we reached the ski area, the college kids had cleared out. We caught the late bus back to the valley. Before going, I grabbed a nice hot cup of coffee and said a quick farewell to Badger Pass. I'm already looking forward to next season.