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Saturday Edition



By J.J. Solari with photos supplied by Sam Burns

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It wasn’t until the third or fourth visit though that I began to experience the truth that not being insane allows you to see what’s actually really there. And what’s actually there is the US Government. Thanks to that socialist berserker Teddy Roosevelt. And whatever God gave Yosemite Valley to brighten your heart, Teddy Roosevelt and Washington DC went balls-out tranquility-busting el furioso to override.
And - at least in 1995 - there was enough infuriation hammering me so fucking hard that not only did I write this…I wrote it while THERE! And I was only there a week! This then is the first and probably only truth-telling expose of what to expect, or at least what you could expect to expect in 1995. This intro is being written in 2023.
You probably are not even allowed in at this point. Public Television, financed by you whether you like it or not, calls all of the National Parks via the National Park System “America’s Best Idea,” via a now-famous documentary by Ken Burns. The assumption here, apparently, is that the US Government designed and built the actual terrain of the National Parks. No. They just built the fences you have to pay to get passed to fucking enter the National Parks. Even though they’re “your parks.”
They’re not. That’s just another Bolshevik States of America lie. Like the C-19 body count.


“They should sell this place to the Japanese. Maybe they can fucking fix it.” ____overheard remark of a tourist in a particularly foul mood while visiting Yosemite.
Yosemite National Park is relentlessly called “the crown jewel of the National Park System.” This is the way it’s always described. “The crown jewel of the National Park system.” It is never described or referred to in any other way. Everyone who gets paid to describe things always describes Yosemite as “the crown jewel of the National Park System.”
Well, if it is actually a jewel, it’s a really cheap jewel. Like, for instance, a cock ring with a piece of aluminum foil stuck to it. And if it’s in a crown it must be like the one the Romans put on Jesus; sharp, painful, and full of thorns.
I think I myself would – if I had to get poetic about it, as is the tradition with things Yosemidan – I think I would call it “the biggest dirt clod in DC’s shit-splattered mud tiara.” Not “the crown jewel of the National Park System.” This would retain the sense of royalty and ceremony that is a relentless carbuncle on the ass of “description and praise” that smothers even the keenest mind into a gurgling walloping sludge of sound when singing the praises of what I have come to learn is, basically, a desolate pesthole. And yet at the same time “the biggest dirt clod in DC’s shit-splattered mud tiara” would also subtly suggest the underlying murk of the place. A genuine twofer.

Lou Reed
Lou Reed

Your first sight of Yosemite Valley is supposed to occur when you emerge from The Tunnel. Alas, the Park “people” were unable to figure a way to disguise the sneak preview you get about a mile from The Tunnel. Thus, before you get to The Tunnel you get to see what you are not supposed to see until you emerge from The Tunnel. Someone put a lot of time and effort into making the tunnel The Tunnel.
In typical Yosemite fashion things kind of went sorta wrong. Nonetheless they created The Tunnel. When you reach the end of The Tunnel you are supposed to gasp at the sight that awaits you. You probably will.
In fact this gasp will take you and your vehicle past the abrupt turnoff from the road, which abrupt turnoff you should have taken if you wanted to pause and contemplate the sight out from behind the wheel.
As you travel past the parking area, someone – probably your wife – will shout “Oh look! We can park there!”
Yes, you could park “there” if you had not driven past “there.” Now you will have to either piss off 3 million drivers behind you who have also missed the parking lot, or you will have to descend into the Valley and enter onto The Loop to get back: or, as I sometimes call it, The Loop of Loneliness. Or, The Loop of Loss. Or, The Loop of Despair. Or, The Loop of Sadness. Or, The Loop of Emptiness. And very often it can become The Loop of Wrath. Not The Loop’s wrath against you; your own wrath against The Loop.
If, however you are driving slow enough to actually negotiate the left turn into the parking lot, you will slowly drive across the almost invisible and faded parking lines while staring off to your right, and it will be like you are being somehow slowly hit with a hammer. A panoramic hammer. It will be an ongoing, slow-motion blow that will leave you gasping with an involuntary jolt of recognition. It will be the sight you’ve seen in other forms and in other media: in snapshots; in ads; in magazines; in photo books; on television; in travelogues.
All of your past Yosemite photo experiences will be embedded into the vista you are now staring at. There will be a physical adrenal shock. A shock of recognition. You will gasp, “It’s really real!”

Yes, it sure is. It’s really real. And eventually you will come to consider this its primary drawback. And this change of attitude will come quickly. It will come quickly like Jesus said He would at Armageddon. It comes – this change of attitude, of psyche, of mood, of spiritual elevation – this change occurs at the same time as you descend into the valley itself.

This change, it affects the limbic portion of your brain, this change does: that part of your brain that exclusively concerns itself with the raw survival of the organism that’s carting the limbic brain around in its head; that portion of your brain that strives, when all else is lost, to at least keep you alive on a basic, metabolic level. And so, in an effort to do its job, the limbic brain slowly leaks chemicals into your nervous system that awaken in you the queasy, uneasy suspicion that maybe, just maybe................... you shouldn’t really be here.

Your limbic brain is dead-on accurate. Despite what you may have seen from the parking lot, your limbic brain knows just by the vibe in the air that you are not really entering into a beautiful valley. You are really entering into a box canyon, narrow in width, short in length, encased in solid granite slabs 3-4,000 feet high; a box canyon managed by idiots and from which there is escape only for one car at a time should calamity strike. And it will.

Your first stop on your brief downward descent into Government-land will be the Bridal-veil Fall parking lot. And you will have to piss unless Toltec, Mayan, Aztec and Incan-like, you pissed behind the open driver’s-side door of your vehicle in front of your wife and children and in front of the wives and children of every passing motorist; which, all the way here from the Park entrance you have probably been very tempted to do, since you have not passed a shitting or pissing facility since you left the Park Entrance 30 miles and an hour and a half back along the winding winding winding mountain road, where they have a shitter for the convenience of the Rangers sitting on their asses and taking your money so that you can go into “your” National Park even though you are a Citizen of the hosting country and not some foreigner who should have to pay through the ass to see anything American if they hate us so goddamn much.
But like the question asks, do bears shit in the woods? ... Yes. Yes they do. But if you try the same thing yourself after you enter the Park in your desperation to empty your bladder and bung from the shitter-free ride from the Park Entrance to the Valley, you, and not the bear, will go to jail.
The car now parked, the large Bridalveil Fall shitter plain in your view, you frantically exit your car one hand pressed tight against your crotch and the other hand pressed tight against your ass in order to keep the accumulated shit and piss from bursting from your body right there in the parking lot.
You advance at a dead run toward the large, hotel-sized defecation sump, only to abruptly slam into and fall backwards from the invisible barrier: the steel-like wall of impenetrable stink that extends a hundred yards in all directions from the structure.

All shitters stink but none stink like the Yosemite Park Bridal-veil Falls shitter. This shitter is the home of the Mother of All Stinks. It is the training ground for all the little stinks of the world: a dead cat in the roadside; a back-alley dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant; an NBA kneepad and jockstrap after the game and tossed on the floor of the locker room; the locker room itself; a bowl of intestinal gangrene left in the sun until filled with fertilized fly eggs from flies that live in Satan’s gonorrhea-soaked testicle sac; a Muslim three days after being scorched into a hundred and fifty pounds of sizzling bacon fat by a mischievous American Serviceman doing his part to reapply the prescient ideas on genocide advanced by Hitler toward a more appropriate and worthy social constituency; the smell of a hot tin shed in Borneo filled with lepers, some of them alive; a blue whale dead on the beach for three weeks compressed into a fly smothered block the size of a couch and placed in your living room on a hot day in August in Georgia; Kimodo Dragon tooth-tartar and cascading bacteria-filled saliva from its toxic mouth collected into horse troughs mixed with ten pounds of wet, syphilitic ass-yeast from a thousand Islamic male whores and a year’s collection of rectums from a pig slaughterhouse in Haiti and placed in the trunk of your car for a month in the windless heat of a Death Valley dry-wash in summer, which is then poured over your head, collected, and re-poured over your head for the rest of your life – a stench of that magnitude, construction and proximity. That’s what the Bridal-veil Falls Shitter smells like.
Apprentice stenches come here from all over the globe to learn from the Queen of Stenches what a truly world-class odor is. And world class it should be since all the shit from all the asses from all over the earth for the past hundred years is still in that hole.
Hindu shit, Muslim shit, Burmese shit, Mongolian shit, Persian shit, Israelite shit, Egyptian shit, Chinese shit, Peruvian shit, Botswanan shit, Indonesian shit, Mexican-from-Texas-to-Argentina shit, shit from the asses of tourists the world over drawn like magnets to the place where the photos of Yosemite were taken that enthralled them so in their various hovels and dumps and swamps and ditches and huts, bringing them all here to this shitter. To shit!
Generations of global dung, unflushed and unflowing, pour and splatter and splash and whap and slosh and plop and fwap and shoosh and slap in wet, dark, liquid-cellar-resonance, plunging via gravity through space and into the hollow reverberating acoustics of the unholy and unlit collector-level of the most ass-diverse crapper in the galaxy; creating as if by some monstrous alien intelligence gone stark raving mad a stationary, reeking, festering, probably glowing, subsurface lake of pestilent fecal nausea filled to the dense intensity of steers packed, rammed and stuffed into a New Dehli boxcar; filled to sanity-tilting capacity with our one uniting human similarity; the thing that makes us all the same; the thing we share that proves, young and old, men and women, black and white, that we all truly are siblings, and not very noble ones – hot, steaming human ass filth. Shit from every human on earth is in that hole.
It is at this point that the wise man will choose to not advance further toward the Bridal-veil Fall shitter but will instead elect to shit in his pants since the smell of his own feces dripping down his own legs will be far, far finer than the aroma that is going to cling to his clothing and skin and his car upholstery and his very bones for the duration of his stay in the Park should he manage to stagger alive from the interior environs of the Bridal-veil Fall shitter.
To the best of my knowledge this shitter is never mentioned by Robert Redford or the Sierra Club in their environmental homages to Yosemite Valley. To the best of my knowledge, to Robert Redford and the Sierra Club, the Bridal-veil Fall shitter does not exist.

Lodging for the non-camper consists of three facilities of varying categories of luxury, the categories being, category 1: civilized and gloomy. Category 2: semi-civilized and neuter. And category 3: uncivilized and hallucinagenically torturous. Those of this third and last category are located on “the dark side” of the tiny valley at the southeast and are apelike in their accommodations, consisting of board bits, cloth shreds, wood particles, leaves and branches, twigs and bark, and the skins of animals if you can trap them. This area is referred to by me as The Area of the Frozen Tents. They call it Curry Village.
Category #1, the civilized and gloomy accommodations:
They are referred to by the government paid Park Trogs as the Ahwahnee Hotel.
This structure will not be discussed much here since these accommodations are available only to persons with bottomless corporate expense accounts. It is a place where your Park Depression can be quickly and efficiently assuaged by the many omnipresent panhandlers who accept large donations of cash for doing practically nothing, much as a sprawling mutant in a traffic jam will lay across your windshield and drool on your hood for a dollar.
At the Ahwahnee these semi-alive portly men will open a door for you, remove a suitcase for you, wander around in front of you and beside you for a while, hand you a piece of paper, or keep you from hurting yourself on a leaf, all in exchange for currency which they wordlessly troll-for with expressions of need, perturbation, indignancy, and I don’t give a shit if it’s not a word, or a slothful reluctance to leave your vicinity until fed some cash.
If the Ahwahnee Hotel - or Concrete Enigma, as it’s sometimes called by me - has any overriding virtue it is that it can shield its guests from the horrors within the park since it has cement walls a yard thick. Even one of the many granite landslides might not overwhelm it, and certainly the prowling ungulates on the Park payroll would have a difficult time infesting the premises without being immediately spotted as an interloper since the people who work and guest at the Ahwahnee have at least the clothing of humans, if not necessarily the souls or bodies of them, whereas the Park Employees have none of the three, though it would be the lack of clothing, mainly, that would be the give-away.
If there are Park horrors within the walls of the Ahwahnee I have never experienced them, never having stayed there. And those who have stayed there, if they have experienced any peculiar-to-the-Ahwahnee Park Horrors they were probably not aware of the extent and duration, being eternally distracted by professional panhandlers. Unless it intruded on the grandiose wine tasting extravaganzas. And then they might notice. At any rate they will probably never know of the horrors available since they will never be reading this guidebook because, well, they will not need to!.....they’ll be at the Awahnee!

Category 2:
I have also never stayed at the place previously referred to as the Frozen Tents. If you have ever stayed at the Frozen Tents you will not be reading this guidebook either nor needing its advice. Because you are now dead.
This leaves the third location, for those who do not camp, and this is the overcrowded central location that I always refer to as the Overcrowded Central Location, or the OCL. It is also called The Yosemite Lodge.
The OCL (overcrowded central location) is divided into three parts.
First, there are the “wobs.” This is their word: wobs. And these are the accommodations that are “without bathrooms.” They are the “wobs.” They have no bathrooms. They are in fact “without bathrooms.” Or in other words the “wobs” have no bathrooms.

There are no bathrooms in the “wobs.” The “wobs” are without bathrooms. If going to the bathroom is something you do, or think you need to do, or do whether you think you need to or not, or do simply to be thought of as someone who does in fact go to the bathroom regardless of whether or not you actually do, the wobs may not be quite the place for you. Because the wobs have no bathrooms.

However, the National Park Demographic Engineers have decided that there actually is a segment of the vacationing public that considers lodging without bathrooms as normal and proper, and so they have gone to a diligent effort to provide appropriate surroundings for these people that they will be comfortable with. Or in other words, surroundings without bathrooms. They have provided them with wobs. Perhaps you are one of these. Perhaps you are someone who doesn’t need a bathroom. Perhaps you are someone who would be fine in a wob.

Well, the Park Service has remembered you. They have tended to your needs with an intense determination in this regard. They have made an extra effort to not provide you with a bathroom. If at some point your entire nature changes and you decide that you do in fact want to shit and piss, bathrooms actually have been provided somewhere. They are there. Somewhere. You just have to find them. If you do not find them and you still need to shit or piss, then please – shit or piss wherever you like! After all, you have not been given a bathroom in your lodging and you have not been told where one is, so just shit outside! Or inside! Thank you! Sincerely, Yosemite Management!
The second variety in the OCL is the “packing crate.” Or as they refer to them, "the cabins."
The packing crate has a bathroom, and it also has a heater. The heater has two settings: 400 degrees F. and OFF. The bathroom has, of course, no fan and no window so all bowel movements taking place in the packing crate remain, at least to some extent, in the packing crate. For hours. At 400 degrees . Since most human shitting takes place early in the morning when it’s too cold to open the doors of the packing crate, exiting the crate early in the day is commonplace.
The third variety of lodging at the Overcrowded Central Location is the, well, you know, kinda motel-like ordinary kinda lodging-like traveller-and-tourist sorta normal sorta ROOMS that you would actually offer to a fellow human being, and these rooms are the only variety of the three available varieties mentioned at the OCL that a scrupulous person with a conscience would actually charge you to stay in. Though at Yosemite the other two varieties, the "cabins" and yes including the Frozen Tents, are also actually charged for.
National Park Philosophy and Endeavorance and Operating Template and Covenants and Sacred Orders of Behavior and Operating Principles
After you’ve had a few interactions with Park Staff and after you’ve read a few pieces of Park Literature, you quickly come to the brooding, depressing realization that Yosemite “customer service,” and in fact all National Park amenities, have as their guidance counsellor and philosophical mentor, the lifestyle, world-view, and science-mindedness of the extinct, prehistoric hominid known as the Pleistocene-Age Native American,” or “Indian.”
All Park Business is patterned after the brainwaves of a tent-dwelling nomad high on mescaline. The “Indian” is the master of the National Park environment, and you – the 21st Century Customer, are to toss-off your expectations and endure your stay in as Stone Age a manner as it is possible for the Park System to reduce you to. Because, you see, the “Indian” is granted, by the Park System Doctrine, the status of intellectual sainthood. Only the “Indian” has the right and correct outlook on things, from cosmology to metaphysics to religion to science to comfort: namely, no outlook.

Because the “Indian” philosophy on things is basically the equivalent of a blank tv screen. In fact, even a blank tv screen has energy surges firing across it if it’s turned on. So, make that a broken tv screen. One with the glass kicked in and the chassis filled with aged cobwebs a thousand years old. In fact, even a broken tv screen is too vibrant a comparison to the “Indian” worldview since a broken tv screen actually may have done something at one time.

Keep in mind that in the philosophy of the Plains and Western "American Indian" a human being does not become "productive" until he dies. It is then that he quite literally becomes fuel for "the environment." Therefore, all Park "energies" manifested by Staff are aimed at making you and the environment more cooperative with each other literally on an atomic-particle level. Any amenity provided to you by the Park Service that did not exist in 1805 in the average Hopi sweat lodge has been provided only with the greatest reluctance and as a last resort, probably due to an armed threat by a paying visitor. Certainly not by anyone In Washington, DC.

The road in Yosemite Valley is a ten-mile loop and is the same one laid down by the Ungwakka Aborigines 15,000 years ago. Once the Park Service took it over in 1900, they laid some asphalt atop it. It’s a tribute to 19th Century road building that there’s anything left of it at all, so the original builders should not be faulted.
Most of the valley floor is off limits to tax paying, fee paying tourists, being the domain of mysterious houses and mysterious cabins gathered together into mysterious communities which you are not allowed to enter, or, if they could make it happen, you would not even be allowed to look at. Compared to where you will be staying, these mysterious dwellings are palatial mansions and in idyllic locations. And in fact, these are homes. The homes of the people who will be actively torturing you during your stay. Yes, that’s right, all these cozy cabins and houses in all these cozy locations in quiet and serene enclaves are in fact the dominions of the Park Staff.
Some other sections of the Valley Floor you will not be allowed access to are the many free-ranging maintenance yards filled with strange and large and rusted machines that, when actually operating, fill the deep granite canyon with azure toxic haze, rich in poisons and dense with depth of caustic fumes for which you will be blamed because you drove your car in here. And which machines, when they are operating, as they often are, impart to the echoing walls intensely loud howlings, rumbles, clanks, shrieks, revvings, dronings, poppings, crackings, bangings and crashings of many kinds and volumes, and occasionally screams when they happen to shred an employee, leaving only the empty beer bottle – that flew from his hand during his churning disintegration into meat and spray – intact.

In fact, as far as environmental outrage is concerned, all is permitted to Park Staff. To you is permitted nothing. Every bag used to wrap your piece-of-crap purchase, every wrapper used to enshroud your piece-of-crap burrito, every paper cup used to contain your tastes-like-crap coffee is placarded with admonitions, warnings, threats and predictions of doom if the personal habits of you and your group are in any way not the way the Yosemite Philosophy says they should be.

You are reminded mercilessly from every quarter, from every printable surface, from every subhuman employee that Yosemite is much more important than you are, much better than you are, morally superior to you, wiser than you, better looking than you, and that if you don’t change your ways – and not just here in the Park but throughout your whole life – then you are a piece of shit and should probably just stay the hell out. This chastisement is relentless.

Construction projects around the Valley floor, what there are of them, are undertaken only by people who actually live in Yosemite Valley: the Lifetime Yosemite Repairmen. That is why nothing ever gets repaired or completed. They have the rest of their lives to fix it. Much of the time during construction or repair guests are encouraged not to become guests, so that when the repairs are made, they can become guests later. Later when they become guests, they will be glad that the repairs have been made. That is assuming that they are aware of the repairs that were made, since they will have been made during the time, they were forbidden to be guests. For their convenience.

Basically, in Yosemite Valley you cannot have repairs and guests at the same time. Be it a broken faucet or a broken fault line, all repairs must be made in secret and in isolation from intruding tourists, so that someday the intruding tourists can have pleasant accommodations. So basically, at Yosemite you have The Present - When No Accommodations Are Available Due To Repairs - and you have The Future - When Accommodations Will Be Available After Repairs. So, right now you might not be able to get reservations. But later, you can. So, make your plans for later. Don’t go there right now. Right now, you should wait and do nothing. Because of the repairs. For you convenience later. When you can go and use what was repaired. Which will not be right now.

THE HELP (Your Park Personnel)
Park Personnel – clerks, clerks, clerks, clerks, and some room-cleaners, mostly – seem to be, from the looks of them, the products of generations of park-clerk inbreeding. Slovenly, ugly, emotion free, snatches of overheard conversation seem to be devoted to a single topic; an impending day off and the volume of beer-drinking which will ensue during it.

No one who works here has money, and no one who visits here has it very long. Feeding a small child in Yosemite costs as much as feeding a Cape Buffalo in a Waikiki restaurant. Employee theft can only be legendary in its magnitude because even though none of them has any money they are all ponderously fat. They are also dimwitted to an almost profound degree. Even more so than what passes for intelligence on the 6 O’clock news. I know what you’re saying: “Ah! But are they more insensate than what passes for radio moderators on NPR?” Oh, such a naive question. Yes.
Intelligent people often seek work here just to be in “this really great place.” But “this really great place” starts to get pretty old, pretty quick, and after about 2 days you begin to see it for what it really is: a seven-mile hole, walled-up on both sides with solid granite that collapses occasionally in sudden unpredictable horrific descents; a narrow canyon of bear-infested close quarters; a piss filled river of scalded bathers in the summer and a slippery moss-heap of lichen in winter between episodes of catastrophic flooding; a narrow racket-filled echo chamber of industrial noise and pollution where rest comes hard and the sight of falling water wears thin fast.

Thus, the intelligent help leave quickly, feeling trapped. Those who remain stay here forever, turning into slovenly beasts with eternal job security, trudging through their cult-like days and nights with a life’s ambition to make it through their chores with a plodding indigence that will allow them to fall listlessly forward on their day off onto an open beer cooler.

Driving your car in Yosemite Valley is discouraged in order to combat smog, so free shuttles are provided to the tourist which circle the stores portion of the valley loop and blast into the air root beer colored clouds that hang low over the landscape like vaporized dung that is apparently good for the trees since it is State Exhaust. The busses, which do not need smog checks to get re-registered every year, produce in five minutes more pollutants than ten miles of the Ventura Freeway on a hot day packed tight and stock-still with tie-ups in both directions.
There is some talk of converting the bus fleet to electric vehicles. To the simple minds of the Yosemite Staff this could prove ruinous to the – at least for now – reliability of the busses. Electricity would prove to be far too advanced a substance for them to properly control and operate, as opposed to the fire and smoke which they and their ancestors long ago learned to tame. So while the electric busses should eliminate the State Sponsored Smog Release Program, they will also eliminate the Arriving Bus Program, since they’ll probably all shortly, once in operation, cease functioning.
James Dean
James Dean

Yosemite is considered the premier National Park because you need not actually go outside and seek adventure here. It comes to your room and finds you.
Supreme and available to all on the adventuring list is the Sudden Printed Announcement.
Sudden Printed Announcements, or S.P.A.’s, as I call them, are always encountered - when they occur – as you re-enter your room after an outing. You never have an S.P.A. handed to you by someone, for example: this would provide for you a target for your anger.
No, S.P.A.’s are always laid on the bureau in your room by a mysterious interloper.
S.P.A.’s are always formally worded and very neatly typed. Every S.P.A. is the son or daughter of a long line of ancestors. Thus, the language is always facile and the message thoughtfully composed. They are printed with dark readable ink on good paper.
They always impart bad news.
During my last stay in Yosemite, for example, which was for 6 days, I received three Sudden Printed Announcements. In this perfectly random week, in the winter, when nobody goes there, trouble was batting .500!
The first S.P.A. announced a “scheduled power outage” which was to occur “sometime” between 8AM and 6PM the next day. This meant that if you planned to use anything electric tomorrow, you better do it early.
Not knowing if the water was heated electrically or not, I got up at 5AM to shower.
As I came and went from the room in the course of the day, I noticed the electricity stayed on all the time.
The next day there was another S.P.A. It was left on the bureau by someone who came in while we were out.
I have quoted it here word for word.
“Dear Yosemite Guest: Due to an unseen construction problem, the power outage scheduled for Tuesday, Dec. 3 did not take place.
The power outage has been rescheduled for Thursday, Dec. 5, from 8AM to 6PM.
We apologize for this inconvenience and truly appreciate your patience during this trying time of construction at the Lodge.
___Sincerely, Yosemite Management.”
Yosemite is the only place in the galactic universe that schedules power outages, then apologizes to you for not having them when they are scheduled, and then reschedules them for your convenience. Please be patient, we will have the power outage for you shortly. Thank you.
The third S.P.A had to do with the bathroom situation in the “wobs.” You will remember that “wobs” means “rooms without bathrooms.” The rooms without bathrooms had a bathroom problem. The showers broke. Well, the mens’ showers broke. But the womens’ showers were still working. Why we, who were not in a wob, were left this S.P.A. is still an unsolved mystery. One of many.

To return to the note, the men would have to therefore use the women’s showers. But not when the women were using them. Otherwise, there would have been a riotous, libidinous, sperm-spraying fuckfest.
The note didn’t say this but it would have been a lot better note if it had. Since the men and the women could not shower together, but rather the men could only shower with other strange men and the women could only shower with other strange women, therefore the showering “day” was going to have to be divided into men’s and women’s segments: 6-9AM for the women, 9-noon for the men, and so on, throughout the day, which was detailed, up until some terminating point after which I suppose no one, man or woman, was allowed to shower.
What the penalty would be for taking a shower at a time when no showers were scheduled – say 3 in the morning – or violating the showering schedule in some other unimagined way wasn’t mentioned. But the printed showering schedule should give warning to the visitor who stays at the wobs should the toilets fail, if they exist and wherever they may be located: very likely there will be printed a very well thought out shitting schedule.

Because, like the showers, if the toilets fail, management won’t fix them. They will write a schedule for you. To the Employed-At-Yosemite mind this is a valid and thoughtful solution: changing you; changing your life; changing your schedule. Not fixing the problem: no, teaching you how to adapt to it.
Joe Namath and Ann Margaret
Joe Namath and Ann Margaret

There is a small sign on the glass in front of every Yosemite fire extinguisher which reads, “DO NOT USE THIS EQUIPMENT BEFORE NOTIFYING THE FIRE DEPARTMENT.”
Let’s think about this for a minute. You’re in Yosemite.You spot a fire. You run to the fire extinguisher. You read the sign.
You flee the fire extinguisher and search for a phone. One with wires. The only kind that works there.
You call information and get the number of the fire department, not provided by the sign.
You call them and tell them you are going to use the fire extinguisher.
You hang up.?You run back to the fire extinguisher. You take it to the fire. Everything has burned down.
You are probably thinking that Yosemite is plagued by someone who is bad at written communication. Someone who is simply unable to think things through clearly. This is not really true. The signs are communicating exactly what is intended to be communicated:
1. expect power outages.
2. expect to be warned about them.
3. expect them to be frequent.
4. expect them not to occur as planned, forcing you to experience normal service.
5. expect to be apologized to for not suffering as had been planned for you.
6. expect total paralysis in case of fire.
Hall and Oats
Hall and Oats

YOSEMITE LOGIC (cont.) Poignant, personal touches, the Yosemite way
This year we didn’t get the room we had reserved 6 months in advance. They hadn’t put someone else in there: they closed the whole building. I accepted with indifference this news that they could have informed us about weeks earlier but didn’t. I was content. We were alive. We were in Yosemite; we were dealing with Yosemite Staff....... and we were still alive. Things were going well in Yosemite-land.
The man gave us the keys to a new room?We went to the room and the keys didn’t fit.?We went back to the man and told him the keys didn’t fit. He looked at the keys and whacked his forehead. Silly him! he said. He gave us new keys. We took the new keys and went back to the door. They worked.
If there is a lesson for you here, it is this: having something go wrong at Yosemite at the hands of the Staff changes the way you number events. For instance, not getting the room we reserved is of no consequence – they provided a substitute. Therefore, there is nothing to complain about because in Yosemite-land this is not a botched incident. A new room was provided. Just not the one they said you would have when you sent them money.
Getting the wrong keys and having to make two trips to get into the room is also not a botched incident: they gave us the correct keys on the first attempt at correcting the error. By Yosemite Performance Standards this is phenomenal. Therefore, any initially botched incident is not considered a botched incident. In Yosemite-land there has been no failure until the corrective measure is botched. So, the first time something wrong happens, it is not the first time. Not getting the reserved room is a no-incident incident. If they had not given us a room at all, that would have been an incident.
Getting the wrong keys, the first time was not an incident. If the replacement keys had failed, then the second key incident would have been the first incident – since the “actual” first incident is “thrown out,” so to speak. Something like ice skating judging. In other words, the first key incident was the second incident. In other words, they gave us the correct key ... the first time!
You learn to think this way in Yosemite in order to save your temper and your nerves because if you allow yourself to react at the first failure at providing you with some normal, expected, run of the mill service, you will be yelling and screaming all day long. Always wait until the first attempt at the correction of a botch. Sometimes you get lucky and this second attempt is successful. The first time.

Ewan McGregor by Patrick Frazer Studios
Ewan McGregor by Patrick Frazer Studios

A Philosophy of the Wilds
Yosemite has gotten it’s deity-like stature as a piece of sacred geology because of a pair of exclusive, peculiar optical phenomena comprised of two rock formations, El Capitan and Half Dome, and a very high waterfall, Yosemite Falls, the three of which, as a free standing trio in close proximity around a deep hole, cement into the minds of the inbred and lowbred a kind of rapturous delusion of helplessness. Which many people enjoy feeling. Because 1: it’s an emotion, which is basically effortless, and people really like that, and 2: they didn’t have to actually do anything that involved any kind of actual thinking to feel it.
However, Yosemite, far from being inspiring, is actually terrifying. To anyone with any intelligence and powers of rudimentary observation. And this is the real nature of the underlying emotion that envelops you as you enter: fear. At least it should be if your IQ is over one.
Yosemite is peculiar not only because of its high walls but because of its engulfing high walls. Engulfing high walls made out of granite. Not a granite hybrid. Just the granite. Engulfing High walls which are never out of your view. Because they are so fucking close. Never out of your consciousness. Because they are so fucking close. Never out of your dreams during slumber. Because they are so fucking close.
This feeling of fear is engendered – not because of their inherent beauty – but because of the obscure awareness that, should the walls collapse – you most assuredly will be killed. This is not claustrophobia, which is an unreasonable fear of an imaginary event. The Yosemite walls – of solid granite – do actually collapse. And in fact collapsed once in 1995 and again in 1996.
This granite configuration - added to the relentless pious unchallenged energy being generated toward all things animal vegetable and mineral by a peculiar enclave of lesbian intellectuals with personality disorders - has transmogrified the very word Yosemite into a genuflecting prayer, lugging within it a category of awe similar to the one the Israelites assigned to the syllables “Yahweh.” You could in fact call Yosemite “Yahwehmite” and be right in the ballpark of appropriate homage.
However, Yahwehmite is far from divine, it is rather a suffocating, granite-surrounded canyon boasting only one saving grace, if it can be called that: far-more-than-its-share of gluts of toppling water.
The hypnotic effect of water-under-gravity has infected humans with a spaced-out stare all the way from the trees. Seeing anything plummet holds for humans a moth-level fascination. Seeing something fall seemingly endlessly, continuously, rhythmically, eternally, an ongoing moving line of shimmering white in the sun is akin to nirvana for our sadistic race, a sight exceeded only in reverence by explosions of large land masses, the collapsing of human structures and collisions between occupied vehicles.
These narcotic-like discharges in the brain when viewing Yosemite Falls occur also when viewing empty listless vistas that are commonly referred to by 40-year-old lesbians who refuse to die or style their hair and emotionally-arrested anorexic men with striated knee tendons eternally visible beneath very short hiking shorts with no underwear often worn weeks at a time between washings.......... as “the environment.”

However, there is nothing inherently “inspiring” about the environment. The environment is something to be pulverized and hamstrung before it pulverizes and hamstrings you. A wise fellow once said, “What do I care if eagles become extinct and sea otters disappear? We have eagles and sea otters now and I still haven’t seen any. So, who gives a shit?”

In Yosemite Valley you are encouraged by the Keepers Of The Dust to wash your trash. Jars and cans?..... you should wash them before you throw them out. You are encouraged to do this via signs.
Signs that remind you of your duties to your garbage. In Yosemite you owe your garbage your full attention. In Yosemite you are told to wash your trash. You are in spirit and in practice to intern yourself to some unnamed reclamation company you have never contacted. And you will never be promoted to pay status for your efforts either. You will remain a trash intern forever. And the guests in Yosemite, fair to say, are not alone in this. Now most of America washes and sorts its trash so that somebody else, usually an Italian, can obtain full profit from your labor.

In Yosemite, trash washing is optional. But sorting is vigorously encouraged through the use of Exclusivity trashcans: one for an unnamed variety of trash called “trash,” one for objects made from the periodic chart element “aluminum,” one for fused sand, or “glass,” and one for “plastic.”
Since trash collection all over the USA is controlled and operated by a Secret Italian Men’s’ Fraternal Organization, the dago mobster who talked Congress into taking trash seriously is now living higher, and with more laughter, than the owner of Las Vegas.
The “environment” is doing everything in its fucking power to annihilate us and we’re trying to be kind to it. Floods, fires, droughts, hurricanes, tornados, earthquakes, lightning, wind, rats, ants, cancer – and we’re trying to save it from pop bottles.

Dr. Hamster on Bandit's 1946 Indian
Dr. Hamster on Bandit's 1946 Indian

The “Yosemite Guide,” a seasonal, 8-page newspaper, paid for by you even if you don’t come here, and handed to you personally by an adult boy scout on the tax roles as you pay your entrance fee, has in this particular issue, Nov. ‘96-May, ‘97, an article entitled, “The Bears Are Not To Blame.” It goes on to inform you that you are.
You are to blame if one of the ten million free roaming bears in the area, anyone of which could simultaneously disembowel-while hurling-300-yards an adult horse, or tear apart your food supply, your tent, your car, your family and your friends, your relatives, and your monstrous RV and all its supplies….actually does any of these things to you. Or your stuff. If this happens..... you have not taken proper precautions.
It also gives you a list of advisories if you encounter a bear, any one of which advisories would provoke a snoozing parakeet into killing you, either out of alarm, or just sheer aggravation at your stupid antics.
You are to, among the various ploys to get Ursus to scamper off, make noise; bang pots together; gather into a group and face it whilst waving your arms and shouting, “I’m over here!” Or in general staying right in place, doing nothing, and acting, basically terrified. This will scare the bear away. You acting terrified and making sure this is clearly communicated to the bear, that you are afraid of it.....this knowledge about you will make it run away and hide. That you fear it and are now up to your white pasty ankles in your own shit....this will tell the bear he had better skedaddle if he knows what's good for him.
Nowhere in the article does it advise you to grab a loaded rifle and carefully place a bullet anyplace into the bear’s anatomy, following this up with all your remaining ammunition and all the ammunition you’ve snatched from your friends being pumped relentlessly into the motherfucker’s hide, killing the animal, and then reloading repeatedly and emptying several more cases of ammunition thereafter into the animal’s dead body until you have finally disgorged your rage and hatred and have turned the threat to you and your children into a flat, obliterated, blood-soaked bathrobe.
This solution is not advised by the Department of the Interior.
In fact, it is forbidden.
This avenue is not open to you.
What you are instead supposed to do is encourage the bear to leave: encourage him to stop behaving like a bear and to begin behaving like a bunny. A bunny that will flee and run away.
You are to encourage him to become fearful and shy, nervous and embarrassed, jittery and faint. You are encouraged to try and get the bear to behave like some other species. Perhaps like a park squirrel. Or perhaps like an inhabitant of a delightful tale, such as a gentle Eloi. At the same time, you are attempting to alter the bear's nature you are not to do any damage, physical or emotional, to the bear in any way.

You are never to swing an ax in its face. Or throw a grenade. Or even a firecracker. The assumption of the Park System is that if the bear is there at all, you have done something you shouldn’t have done to lure it into the area. Like, for instance, you came to Yosemite.
The bear toll on humans is not made available anywhere at any time, I guess because people would not really be surprised to hear that a bear killed somebody. Like Geico, that’s what bears do. But when a deer kills someone, they put up a large sign for you, telling you all about it.
On the side of the road at the meadow where you have the best view of Halfass – one of the three things you look at here – as you leave your car and walk toward the meadow to gaze at the sight, you are interrupted by a sign. The sign says that at this spot a little girl was impaled by a deer, her body stuck to and woven throughout its antlers like cotton candy stuck to a rake, the deer then using her lifeless body as a trenching tool to dig a long deep ditch through the meadow for itself.
Why did the deer do this? Because she attempted to feed it, probably cafeteria food. The deer was not to blame. She was. Since the deer here are pretty indistinguishable it’s a safe bet that the murdering tourist-attraction still roams the roadside freely, its human notch secure in its belt, since firearms – your one guarantee of surviving your stay here – are forbidden. If I was that child’s father I would have returned with a fast-firing weapon and taken a lively toll out of the meandering deer population, for which I would have been promptly executed the next day in San Quentin, quietly, with no public protest, no lengthy appeals and no trial.
Cary Grant and Ann Sheridan
Cary Grant and Ann Sheridan

The Yosemite Park Rangers delight in explaining in simplistic, half-formed sentences how Yosemite Valley, because of the layout of the terrain, channels air currents into an occasional pattern that mysteriously feeds itself into a roaring, circling exploration of the canyon in a manner exclusive to this particular valley.
I was once forbidden by the Park Service to return to my cabin because it was “too windy.” They weren’t just picking on me and being mean. Nobody could return to their cabins. It was too windy! It was too windy to go inside! We had to stay outside. If we went inside, a tree could fall on us and kill us. That’s what they said. They said the year before a tree had fallen on a cabin and killed a youngster. So that this wouldn’t happen to us, and since it was again windy, we would have to remain outside of our cabins.
I asked, “If the pine trees are so weakly-rooted that the wind can topple them, why are they left standing?”
“Because this is Yosemite. We don’t cut trees in Yosemite unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Wouldn’t you say that ‘standing upright only because it’s not windy’ would be a good reason?”
“It would be a good reason, but it’s not absolutely necessary.”
“When would it become absolutely necessary to cut down a Yosemite tree?”

“If it fell on someone.”
Talking to Yosemite Personnel, especially the Park Rangers, is a wonderfully surreal experience if you have your temper under control or if you are ripped on acid and just want to have a cool word-filled trip because since they aren’t in the business of arresting people, they will writhe beneath the stress of simple-logic questions for far longer than, say, a police officer would, who would hit you immediately with his flashlight, or at least threaten to.
Also, because Park Rangers only inconvenience you for the duration of your stay in the Park, rather than, say, for the duration of your life like cops do, the Rangers are convinced that the answers they have been taught to give are actually informative and intelligent. Thus, is it that their inability to see beyond their world of plants and animals, which is basically the worldview of a child in a petting zoo, or their inability to see into your world of trying to make enough money to keep both you and your family alive, as well as have enough left over to pay to keep the Park Ranger and his family alive, is not surprising.

Park Rangers will do everything in their power to protect you from trees, but they will do nothing in their power to protect you from bears. You can be mauled by bears several times a day and no one on the public payroll will interfere.
If you are threatened by a tree, however, Park Officials will form a phalanx around you so tight Paul Bunyon couldn’t hack his way through. The bears, though, are something you will have to deal with by yourself. And there is ample warning provided all around the Park that if you suffer the trauma and death of a bear attack, rest assured, you are to blame.
“The bears are not to blame” is the unofficial Park Motto, printed on everything from the sides of busses to the sheets of toilet paper. And be assured that Yosemite Park toilet paper is tough enough to print on. But don’t try and get your shit to stick to it.
Yosemite toilet paper will absorb solvent and clean rifle bores better than it will absorb shit and clean your asshole. But, then, if it cleaned your asshole, you would actually use it. And if you actually used it, you would clog the toilet. Because Yosemite toilets, as they are proud of saying over and over again, are “water wise.”
They are water wise and butthole foolish. Meaning, they dispense just enough water to allow the water that was dispensed to go through the pipes. Turds, being greasy, will go through the pipes along with the water 50% of the time. If they are not too voluminous or plentiful. Whereas Yosemite toilet paper, being still foliage, will cause the toilet to cease operating 100% of the time. You learn early in your stay that Park Policy would prefer that you do not come to Yosemite at all, but if you must, while you are here they would prefer you not wipe your ass.
I have gotten off the track. I apologize. The problems of Yosemite just come to the mind so quickly it leaves you breathless in your haste to warn the innocent. The swarm of details overlap and interweave, like traffic in a panicked exodus, like the town crier’s syllables as the flying saucers approach with 4th dimensional railguns glowing, like the child’s staccato vocabulary to his parents after having just found the family dog dead.
So, as I was saying, and as you must resolve to believe, the bears are not to blame. If you are attacked by a bear, or if you have your property attacked by a bear, Yosemite makes it clear to you that you, not the bear, did something wrong. In Yosemite Philosophy, the bears “are supposed to be there.” You are not.
The Park Service operates on Traditional Government Business Policy which is: the customer should be punished and dealt with harshly at all times because the government employee is what government service is all about.
Government is in the business of generating, not profits and not products, but employees. Employees are what governments are in the business of producing. And then, by one means or another, they force everyone else to do business with their employees. Who have nothing to provide to the customer except the existence of their own job. It’s no wonder they become confused, stupid and hard to get along with. They don’t know what else they should be doing except existing.
To the Park Service the bears too are government employees. They are entitled to your food and your car and your belongings if they can gain access to them. Which is the identical line of reasoning employed by bureaucrats regarding themselves. If there is any difference at all between the bears and the other government employees it is that the bears eat less. Because the bears eat less than the other government employees the bears are more agile and better fit and can dismember your limbs from your central core and decapitate you besides simply by sweeping both their arms in an arc in front of themselves once.
A Park Ranger, on the other hand, because she’s fatter and less coordinated, would have to struggle all day on you to get the same result. First, she’d have to shoot you a few times and then she’d have to work on your dead body for two hours with a shovel, a pitchfork, an ax and some dynamite to accomplish what a bear could accomplish on you in a split second.
Another difference between a 400-pound government employee and a 400-pound bear is that the former cannot climb up a tree. Under any circumstances. A 400-pound bear, however, can climb a 300-foot tree in two point, five seconds. And even if a 400-pound Park Ranger could climb a tree to any height, he would crash to the ground very shortly because he would be grasping onto the branches to make his ascent and they would break.
A bear climbs a tree by running up the trunk. And if he has to, he can stand sideways on the trunk all day long if he feels like it. That is why there is a Park Policy to protect you from falling trees but there is no Park Policy to protect you from falling bears, since the bears rarely fall on people, unlike the trees.
No, bears do not fall on you, bears come right at you straight on. They come a-running. They come flat-out across the turf, looking right at you, their fur rippling like brown bedsheets in a hurrricane. Big muscles, dozens of claws and lotsa sharp teeth operated by powerful jaw-springs, all heading your way, right now, at a gallop, and most likely - for who knows what reason - totally pissed off.
Kind of like an insane human: totally pissed off for who knows why, and anxious to kill you. In fact, that would be a good, simple, working definition of the entire animal kingdom: they are exactly like insane humans beings. All animals and all insane humans want exactly the same thing out of life; to kill you.
Since the bears are government employees, and want to attack you with their bodies – something you would never dream of doing to them – the carrying of firearms in the National Parks is expressly and vigorously prohibited. Even though firearms are the only effective means of terminating a bear and his attack.
As you may be able to glean by now, unless you have been vaporized by a Muslim or an environmentalist or devout vegan, each on a holy quest like a charging bear to kill you, Park Policy is dedicated to maximizing your discomfort and discouraging you from coming back.
People on the pubic payroll, just like people on the private payroll, are very reluctant to actually do anything. However, people on the public payroll, since they themselves are the final product and the sole purpose of the enterprise’s existence, they can actually achieve zero customers and full employment. Simultaneously! And forever! Not through work but through fiat.
Public servants are no better or worse or lazier or stupider than the rest of us but because they exist by fiat and not by performance, they can actually achieve what all the rest of us lazy dumbasses can only dream about: 100% job security with 0% expenditure of effort. You and me, we can’t do that. We have to actually attempt to keep the business we are working-for in business. We have to encourage customer satisfaction. Park employees do not.
If you are hurt by a bear you are to blame and you have no recourse, save a personally undertaken extermination plot. However, human attacks upon National Park bears, whether the bears were provoked or unprovoked, are punished severely and quickly.
You will get punished for injuring a bear much faster than you will get, say, to your destination in a Park conveyance, and faster than you will get your lunch at a Park cafeteria, and faster than you will get medical aid for your norovirus-infused lunch at a Park cafeteria from a Park doctor. If you hurt a bear, things happen very fast in order to bring your bear-hurting activities to a quick and lasting halt. It’s the only thing that does happen very fast in Yosemite: your punishment for hurting a bear.
We are now ready to actually define Yosemite and in fact the whole National Park system: the National Parks are places where a portion of your weekly paycheck is confiscated and sent to in order to enable the Park Employees to protect bears from you.

Clint Eastwood
Clint Eastwood

“Cecily just whacked her bare foot into the wheel-brake on the Yosemite bed leg in the Yosemite room, which bed leg is hidden by the Yosemite bedspread but is positioned far out into the traffic zone of the floor so that you can be hurt real bad while safely in your quarters.
The beds have probably been selected by Yosemite Management for this reason, so that you can experience unpleasantness and danger every moment here, whether while going up a cold, slippery ravine, down a cold slippery trail, across cold slippery rocks, or to the cold, slippery toilet in your room."

Dan Aykroyd
Dan Aykroyd

All of Yosemite Valley, probably the most visited tourist vista on earth, is run like a construction-site lunch wagon. In fact, that is probably not a good way of putting it; construction-site lunch wagons are usually hotbeds of efficiency. Construction guys won’t put up with a lot of second-rate stupidity that keeps them standing in a line when they want to be slouched against a wheelbarrow, eating burritos and talking about Yolanda. An inefficient lunch wagon would be overturned.
If Yosemite was lined, up and down and all along its loop, with efficient lunch wagons there’d be a lot more smiles and a lot less lines. There is a desperate need for a slew of McDonald’s, Taco Bells, Carl’s Jrs, Burger Kings and corporate fast foods galore in Yosemite to enhance the spirits of all. But remember, Yosemite Valley is a church. It’s a seven mile long, half mile wide worship service. In church you suffer. You do not eat good hamburgers in church.
So let me try again to describe Yosemite customer service, this time not in terms of a construction site lunch wagon, which I have very unfairly maligned.
All of Yosemite, probably the most visited tourist vista on earth, is run like the interior of a boarded warehouse inhabited by runaways, teenage prostitutes, meth addicts, alcoholics with TB, and older, choleric, lifetime bums teaching the younger consumptive derelicts the ropes.
Yosemite employees on the tax dole are so far removed from the needs and efforts of people who support themselves by fair trade that they remain spoiled, impacted-arteried imps all their useless lives. And why not; service to the customer is unnecessary in a non-competitive arena.
The survival of the employee is not dependent on the profit of the business, since the Park is subsidized, thanks to Teddy Roosevelt, who YOU might like but who I am convinced was a fucking Commie. So, it is you, the customer, who is expendable. He, the employee, is not. He will be there forever, being dull, listless and annoying long after you have died of neglect.
You yourself may not, you will be absolutely forbidden, don’t even think about it, put any thoughts you might have right out of your head of going into business for yourself in Yosemite. Even though everyone who visits there is clamoring for one kind of service or another, which if they were actually provided and not just pantomimed, the taxable revenues would run the upkeep not just of the American National Parks but everyone else’s. But it’s not allowed. “It would ruin it.” The visitors and paying tourists would be happy. But the land would be sad.


In Yosemite they are very proud of the fact that the toilets do not provide enough water for you to flush your own shit. They call them “water wise.” The toilets are wise in Yosemite. Just when you fear you are surrounded by the most inanely imbecilic employees in America, where stupidity seeps from the rocks, ineptitude oozes from the soil, and incompetence radiates from the very sunlight, you are relieved to learn from Yosemite Management that the toilets, at least, are wise.
The toilets are wise because they utilize, or perhaps don’t utilize, a restricted water flow. They are wise in that they conserve water.
They are unwise, however, in that they accumulate shit.
A portion of this shit will be yours, and that would be the shit that is in your particular toilet AND it will be on the bathroom floor and in your room, and around your ankles if you don’t shit properly. There is a right way and a wrong way to shit in Yosemite!
I do not mean to yell, and this is not a tirade against you. But my emotions are up. I have learned the hard way and I wish to spare you the grief and the wrath of this learning process. Better for you to learn it here, in the classroom, in your own house, where the toilets are managed by a caring and intelligent individual: you, than to learn it in Yosemite Valley National Park Incompetence Central of the Galaxy where the toilets are managed by fiat from Washington DC out of books purchased from Josef Stalin and Friedrich Engels.
A Yosemite toilet will be no match for your mighty turds, sir, the toilet-clogging capabilities of which I’m sure are legendary. You will have to, in Yosemite, evolve a toilet-override technique that will involve initiating the flush whilst the mighty toilet-choking ass-mud is still dangling out into the atmosphere from its starfish birth-canal.
Do not sit on the flap seat for this. Sit directly on the porcelain rim. This gets the fecal dowel closer to the water sooner, and it also helps reduce splash-back. You do not want someone else’s bacteria leaping, salmon-like, into your own asshole.
As the tube-of-your-own-foulness begins to penetrate the surface of the pool, at some Zen-like moment, which you will have to determine on your own since you won’t be able to actually see the dung-clod cut the surface unless you have a spotter, which I heartily recommend – when you sense that at least some portion of the leading edge of the escaping chocolate ass dweller has submerged itself..... you flush! – this will impart, as the water begins to spin, a swirling, severing motion against the grease log.
The idea is that this ever-increasing spin of rugged, mineral-filled water will batter the half immersed brown, stench-laden wad of compacted transfat-extract with enough continuous impact that a portion of the toxic timber will detach, making it, in theory, capable of being carried away by the wise toilet. You’ll notice that it is not the wise toilet that has come up with this suggestion.
If you fail to cut the turd in two, a foul, floor-inundating nightmare will be the result. You do not want your turds on the floor of your own room. If you have doubted any of this essay at all up to this point, do not doubt the preceding sentence.
After you have turded and after the turd has hopefully disappeared – and by that, I mean down the toilet and not out the front door – you, unless you are a Yosemite employee yourself – are going to need to wipe. If you have an asshole made out of barbed wire, corrugated tin, or rusty fish hooks, feel free to use the toilet paper provided. Otherwise bring your own. And a plunger.

Doalotta H-D Sporty
Doalotta H-D Sporty

“Cecily and I have been discussing the rescheduled power outage, which is to occur in 30 minutes, unless it’s rescheduled. Having already taken a shower herself, she was urging me to do so before 8AM. I said to her there would probably still be hot water after 8AM. She said ‘But it will be pitch black in there because there’ll be no lights. It’s like a tomb.’
And since the enclosed shower is enclosed within a dark enclosure that has no air, no windows, and no escape, she is of course right.”
And the point I am making here is this: you are never totally ‘away from it all’ when you come here for a vacation. You are especially never away from the brand new and maximumly stressful situation which Yosemite has just put you in - again - which will be a lot more stressful than the ones at work that sent you here in the first place to relax. Because you cannot relax in Yosemite. You are constantly tense. You are constantly being prodded, pushed, poked and goaded by the Staff into a hyper-vigilant state. There is no letup. So, when you do come here, prepare to leave hurriedly and with great enthusiasm. And not because you have become well rested.

All of Yosemite Valley Policy is geared to appeasing the mentality of a mortgage-free delirium-acclimated dementia-addled lunatic: you are encouraged to wander around the woods eating berries rather than use precious resources at one of the “restaurants.”
The Park is apparently run by bums; they don’t want you driving, or sitting, or otherwise being in any way comfortable since it is Outdoor Mental Patients that pull all the strings in whatever sub-basement of whatever legislation generator that powers the National Park System. Why the visitors put up with it is a mystery. Perhaps it is because the visitors don’t really expect to be comfortable at the bottom of a fucking canyon.
And apparently, they don’t expect to be able to see. At least that’s apparently what the Park Administrators think.
The nighttime illumination within the even the most illuminated areas would send a U.S. Marine with infa-red goggles toppling over a cliff, which here, are five million in number. Illuminated guidance for your feet in the clumpy, disintegrated terrain where you actually stay and lodge – not hike 500 miles to, but stay at – is provided by weak, ankle-high, anemically-orange glowballs that are encased in peculiar, light-shielding metal cages that throw 100% of the pallid illumination downward onto its own little support pole.
So, therefore, the fixture itself is all that you can see. The lights illuminate only the lights. Therefore, you will never stumble over one of the lights. However, since the lights are 200 yards apart there is plenty of intervening geology that is not the lights that you may have to actually step on in order to get anywhere. This means that every step not-onto-a-light necessitates the negotiating of an ankle-twisting crazy-house of curbs, ruts, holes, forest debris, drainage failures, trenches, mud morasses, abandoned “repairs” and ice sheets that will send you and your eyeglasses sprawling into a Fresno hospital so fast you won’t have a chance to use your wrong key even once.
And I have been talking about walking in the “safe zone,” the area around the Lodge.
But halfway between the Lodge, and the Cement Hotel about two miles away, is a zone of befuddled-tourist activity known as the Visitors’ Center. This is where the Visitors come to learn about Yosemite!
In it is a simple-minded museum geared to the mentality of a sowbug, that has videos from the ‘60’s telling you in 5 languages lots of optimistic things about Yosemite and what fun you are going to have here, so long as you don’t – and then they tell you the whole billion-item list of things you are not permitted to do because doing any one of them would spoil your fun.
Of course, it goes without saying that everything you are forbidden to do in Yosemite is something that is actually fun. Oddly enough, one of the things you can do in Yosemite is climb up any of the 4,000 ft. cliffs without ropes or equipment or supervision or supplies or an announced plan or training or a brain or even without any friends or co-climbers or companions.
You have the green light to go up any rock face in the Park and fall to your death and no one employed by the Park will chastise you or fine you or scold you. You can’t throw a half-eaten, worm-infested black-with-leprosy hotdog wiener dripping with the ”cook’s” saliva into the trash can parked “recycle” without risking ten years in Dannemora and ten years probation for you and anyone who saw you do it and didn’t turn you in, but you can don your speedos and nothing else and try to fingernail your way up 4,000 feet of sheer un-sloped granite vertical pseudo-planet in a snowstorm without so much as an “Is this ok I do this?” to an “employee” and if you fall to your death, hey, that’s your right as an American: thank you, sincerely, Yosemite Management.
Climbing up a rock face 4,000 feet high is permitted to all and at all times, even during earthquakes. Just don’t throw any trash down. That’s forbidden and punished ten thousand times more seriously than climbing up a granite megalith without ropes because it’s completely irresponsible.

In the museum of Yosemite History there are also some plaster versions – like in first grade – of Yosemite in various stages of its supposed development which they at the museum have attributed to a glacier. It’s been my own experience that when you have no idea how something happened, just say a glacier did it and all will walk away from you content.

Similarly, just insist that meandering ice plowed its way through miles and miles of 4,000 ft high mountains of solid granite terrain rather than take the path of least resistance, say through a canyon already there, and sure as oil comes from the sunken and compressed bodies of dead dinosaurs you will be enthusiastically believed.

There’s also an Indian Graveyard! Probably filled with recently murdered visitors, missing tourists, and the discovered halves of children that the bears couldn’t finish. And there’s also a photo gallery, a store or two, and if you happen to still be there after the sun goes down and you have walked to the Visitors’ Center and the shuttles have ceased are going to have to walk back to the Lodge. Good mother fucking luck, asshole, you are probably going to mother fucking die. Because the small, ankle-high foot ”lights” come to an end a full quarter mile from where you need to be or where you think you need to be, which would be your room.
This, therefore, leaves you Alone With The Night In Yosemite Valley. A night that in Yosemite Valley is darker than the bottom of a coal mine on the far side of Pluto in the middle of winter during an eclipse of the sun with blindfolds on secured by smoked goggles as viewed from the inside of a black dog’s ass.
It is only at night that you fully realize that most of the sky is obscured by the towering now-black granite. Because the billions of stars now only exist in a long thin strip. This alone scares you, that most of the sky is missing. Then you realize that you have to begin walking through it, through this Lovecraftian Night, on foot, without a flashlight, and with no illumination provided by the Park System. Because “That would ruin it.” It certainly would ruin their hopes for your death.
Unable to confidently walk in the “path” because of its Odyssius-in-full-adventure-mode variations and surprises, you are forced to move on out to the road.
In the winter in Yosemite the edges of the dilapidated road are a sargasso of sludge and sleet and bulldozed piles of oily crap and frozen filth, and here is where you have to walk just to feel any discernible false sense of safety. False because every once in a while a car will come by in some direction and it will have lights. So, every once in a while you can make some movement forward through all the invisible hazards before the car passes. You also have to hope that the car sees you, that it doesn’t skid through the winter’s ice or the summer’s moldering algae right onto you accidentally, which is probably commonplace, though there are no available death tolls, just like there are no available death tolls of the tourists who just fall into the Grand Canyon.

Though it’s more likely the drivers of the cars will simply hit you on purpose than claim some sort of road hazard as an excuse because, after all they’ll be every bit as pissed off as you are from their own Yosemite Experience, and they have a weapon.

Your privacy is always respected in Yosemite Valley. This is something that cannot be faulted. If you should happen to buy a nature tape that has an orange PAL sticker affixed to it, and you are not aware that these three letters mean that this tape can only be played in a VCR that is located 15,000 miles away from where you are now standing – in Romania, in other words – you can be sure that the enormous-assed woman behind the counter, especially if she is wearing a Ranger hat, will not inform you of your mistake.

No, she will allow you the dignity of taking the tape home and discovering it for yourself. This is not necessarily meanness on her part. Park Rangers are devoid of any awareness of anything except the varieties of pine needles within a 50-mile radius of where they are assigned, and where the hot food is. If they are reassigned, they are taught about the new pine needles and they retain this information.
They will never augment this information with, say, where a phone can be found, or what a PAL tape is. But if your survival in the woods or your mental well-being within Park confines ever depends on you having immediate pine needle information, a United States Dept. of the Interior Park Ranger will rush to your rescue and ask no thanks.

All of the employees of Yosemite Valley walk about in what is apparently a permanent state of stupefaction, as if in a trance. It’s said by the nature-worshipping angry lesbians who take time off from their poly-sci studies in Palo Alto to come here on occasion, it is said by them that the valley is filled with the sad and lingering spirits of “the defeated.” – the Indians – who once inhabited this “wondrous and mystical place.”
Well, if there are spirits hovering about the canyon, they are not the spirits of the prehistoric Indians, they are coming from a far larger supply of the Newly Dead. A congregation of deceased members that far exceeds in numbers the paltry Indian population that once squatted here on their asses and did nothing, as do their civil servant progeny today who have picked up the cast-down gauntlet of indigence and are now running with it with their feet up on the desk.

It is a ghostly spirit population that increases yearly, filling the canyon with specters and miasmas which then hover here forever, like spiritual pollen in the air, darkening the souls of the vacationers with a removal from them of any diligence-of-purpose, all of it rivaled in sloth-like sodden lethargy only by the living staffers.

This population-increase of ghosts is being enlarged yearly by a persistent, apparently endless, supply of people who, for one reason or another, insist on climbing up the sheer walls of this enormous crypt. As a result there is a continuous rainfall of gyrating, screaming imbeciles which cascades down the rocky curtains on both sides of the river, like plummeting cement bags, impacting into an atomized red mist that eventually evaporates and dissipates above the meadows and eventually transforms itself into Climber Ghosts.
Like riding a motorcycle on the LA Freeways, in Yosemite Cliff Climbing it’s not three strikes and you’re out. It’s one. However, in a motorcycle accident on the freeway, while you may be forever out of the game, you can still hang on as a spectator: in other words, you may not die, you may just wish you did.
Falling off a rock in Yosemite, however, even from five feet up, lands you onto a mat made of the same substance you are trying to climb: granite. Falling from 4,000 feet up imbeds you indiscernibly into the mat. Even a freeway system is not granite. Concrete and asphalt have some give. You might survive. Because usually there is a lot of sliding. Falling in Yosemite, on the other hand, is never sideways. It’s always straight down. And falling straight down onto granite is like falling on industrial steel. In fact, even steel bends. Granite bends you. Into eternity.
Mad as these climbers are, there are members of their very own tribe who are proud to be elevated to the Maddest of the Mad and are revered by the very brethren they are trying to kill. These people are known as The Bolt Removers.

The Bolt Removers are an elite species of rock climbers, the supreme high command of the deranged, the Green Berets of the senseless, the US Navy Seals of the climber executioners: these people lower themselves down with ropes from above onto the walls of Yosemite and chop off the bolts that climbers from years gone by have risked their lives to install, for their own safety, and for the safety of the generations of lunatics to later follow them up there.
The Bolt Removers are fanatically dedicated to this new and novel form of murder and justify it by insisting “bolts dirty routes.” Dirtying a route to a climber-killing Yosemite Seal is as bad to them as a Commie raping and killing all of the earth's ten year olds is to a real SEAL.
In a rice-producing village, if you rape and kill ten year olds..... to a real SEAL: you must die. The real SEALs facilitate this by infiltration, stalking, ambushing and stabbing the Commie to death. The Bolt Remover "Seals" facilitate their revenge by removing the bolts. Both commit murder on strangers. The difference is, the Real SEALS are motivated by revenge against murderers. The Bolt Removers “Seals” are motivated by revenge against the Bolt Installers’ “aesthetics.” Or, to put it another way, the Bolt Removers kill people in order to return the cliff to “what looks nice.” Even though no one on the ground, or anywhere else in Yosemite, would ever see the bolts. This is not only more cold-blooded than anything an actual SEAL would do… its sociopathy taken to new spiritual dimensions of heinousness and perversion.
A bolt is a steel spike, or nail, or rod, or something metal, that is hammered into the granite at great exhaustion and hazard to the hammerer, upon which a lifeline is then clipped to hold one’s weight in the event of a fall. It has to support a weight much greater than the weight of the climber because the first instant it goes into service as a life saver is by way of a sudden and powerful yank when the cascading climber’s rope first twangs into stiffness as a result of the bolt’s instantaneous seizure of the climber’s tentative, falling, simpleton life.
However to the Climbing Elite, the life of the Unworthy Climber – one who needs bolts – is not important. The “aesthetics of the route” are what matter.
Aesthetics are things which you think are beautiful and I do not. Or which I think are beautiful and you do not. Elite Climbers are convinced “routes” are beautiful. Hey: they very well might be. But why force some stranger who’s never met you to die just because he wasn’t lucky enough to learn about your gay party-arrangement principles and standards beforehand?
Bolt Removers are not considered accessories to murder by the Yahwehmite aficionados who approve of this level of cold-blooded murder, no, they are revered as serene and “realized” beings who are now spreading truth and calm through the universe, beginning right here on our little planet by removing bolts from cliffs and killing people.

The ghosts of the dead climbers, and the ghosts of the dead and the living-dead living Indians, and the ghosts of their non-gaming ancestors, and the ghosts of the campers and their children killed by bear and deer attacks, mingle through the trees and cover the Valley, draining the energy, the life, and the joy from the living and making it impossible for anyone but the directionless and corpses, to remain.
Nothing changes here. Change is strictly forbidden. All must remain the way it was when the man who created the National Park System first saw it. That man was Teddy Roosevelt. And Yosemite must not change because what Teddy Roosevelt saw was Yosemite at its most attractive best.
Teddy Roosevelt knew, with the great inner certainty which he possessed regarding when a wilderness area was at it’s most attractive, that never again would Yosemite be more perfect than it was the first time Teddy Roosevelt, hacking his itchy balls, and picking his stuck longjohns out of his ass, stumbled into it. Because Yosemite heard that Teddy Roosevelt was coming by for a visit and so Yosemite put on its best dress. They met, they talked, they came to an agreement: what Teddy Roosevelt saw, you will see.
And it’s not just Yosemite that is the problem in the government-supported Teddy Roosevelt Outdoor Opinion Poll Of One. The entire National Park system is a medievally maintained death trap into which you are encouraged by your government to enter and “enjoy.”

Such as The Grand Canyon.
The Grand Canyon is a 500 mile perimeter of Unfenced Death which the Park Systems proclaims a Wonder and invites you and your family to come and visit and play. There is probably more human rainfall there than there is at Yosemite. But at least at Yosemite the dead are actually recovered because they fall onto the dilapidated road.
At the Grand Canyon with every thousand foot addition to your decent, you recede back into time and into our geological origins, and there, after you hit, you remain; forgotten and unclaimed forever, unless you are discovered by prehistoric ants. There is something you can do at this National Park, besides stare, that is actually possessed of a level of excitement and interest basic enough to where you don’t have to train for 20 years before you can do it, and that is travel down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon on a raft.
The waiting list is 20 years long and has 8,000 names on it. I guess the Grand Canyon is just too small and congested a place for the Park System to squeeze a lotta people through it via gravity. On the other hand, if the Grand Canyon was run by anyone other than the Park System, even Dairy Queen, 8,000,000,000,000,000 people an hour could go through it.

Such as Rocky Mountain National Park.
The road circumnavigating Rocky Mountain National Park is uninterrupted by depots for food, phone, fraternity, first aid, comfort, fuel, liquids, compassion, or company. Elevating itself to 12,000 feet the road winds through the clouds which stray from the abysses of frozen Ganymede, and if you more than sneeze violently you become dizzy and disoriented. And you are totally on your own. And you paid 5 bucks to some petting zoo graduate who claims as you drive past him that this is your park and then pockets your money, to do this.
You paid this moron to drive on this abysmal road. And off he sends you. Like on a carnival trail at a traveling side show in Satan’s Circus, you enter a forbidding desolation across the highest point of the uninhabitable backbone of North America, with the government’s fond farewell, a tip of a Smokey the Bear hat, and no firearms. You churn and chug up the spine of the Western Hemisphere, and for the first time in your government-pestered life – the government leaves you alone!
Even if you’re in a hundred-year-old VW van filled with kids all wearing Birkenstocks, shorts, and no coats, the government bids you farewell and lets you drive off with absolutely no concern for your welfare. They stand there and wave goodbye to you. They do not sit down with you and try and talk you out of what you are about to do.
They do not pass a law against you. They do not threaten to fine you. They do not put you in jail. They do not draft you into the army. They do not serve you with a warrant. They do not confiscate your car and send your children to Child Services to become sociopaths. They do not send you a jury duty summons.
They wish you well!
Every Park Ranger who blithely allows you to drive past his window and enter a National Park is committing an act of criminal negligence. In the real world they would be labeled as irresponsible sadists. In the world of the National Parks they are considered benevolent keepers of the wilds, more concerned with generations coming hence, so that they too can be blithely waved-passed the Ranger-window to their deaths, than with personal gain and monetary rewards.
At some point in your upward death spiral through Rocky Mountain National Park you begin to yearn for a hotel, a way station, a tent, anything to provide relief from the sight and the significance of the endless, filthy permafrost. But that is not allowed. “That would ruin it.”
In the future, when there is space travel, there will be some asshole who will attempt to become one with nature on the unlit side of Neptune. And he’s going to expect you to do likewise. It’s never going to end. These fucks will declare the whole universe off limits just as soon as us able-bodied fucks figure out a way to get there.
Today Yosemite is sacrosanct. Tomorrow it will be the Martian volcanoes and the crusty surfaces of bleak asteroids. These fucks want only one thing: to stop the world because they can’t keep up with it.
The entire National Park System in America is designed for your inconvenience. The whole National Park system in America operates under the principle that torture is good for you. This in fact is the operating spirit of every government function on earth, actually. What makes the National Park Service so unique is that they specialize in providing you with a scenic environment in which to suffer. The government’s philosophy is: if the scenery’s nice, torturing a citizen within it is a virtue.
In government mentality Hitler’s big mistake was in executing 12 million people in shabby surroundings. If he had abandoned them in a mountain wilderness to die of exposure he would have been hailed as a visionary. Dachau, Treblinka and Auschwitz would have been national parks if they had just had, in addition to the misery and the body count, glaciers, waterfalls, park rangers and a few bears.

They need a Bikernet Billboard.
They need a Bikernet Billboard.

The first thing Yosemite needs is a Starbucks. That would turn this wasteland around in short order. Starbucks is a good first choice for infiltration because the strident, stringy-haired lesbian intellectuals who make policy in this Nation would not fight quite so hard to remove this pleasant enclave of students, gay-rights activists, beachfront property owners interested in the arts, and unpublishable writers.
Soon thereafter, once the dam was down, you would see, lit up in neon across Half Dome, “Coca-Cola.” Across El Capitan, “Bally’s Yosemite Workout And Casino.” Strung across Bridalveil Fall in balloons would be, “The Sultan’s Brothel: All Asians All The Time 4 U, Joe.”
Yosemite Falls, lit up from within by green lasers would provide more than enough light for evening strollers traveling along the loop road, with additional, brightly lit guidance all along its length provided by dinging, clanging, eternally flashing slot machines. Vernal Falls would be the central lobby and check-in of the Infidelity Casino and Lounge, where, what happened there would get washed away down the Merced River.
Just one Starbucks could start all this; could pave the way into turning this boring garden of huge-hipped lesbian Park Rangers into a blazing, turbine powered, tit-augmented sperm collector, with Jerry the Ventriloquist doing the free afternoon matinee from the Lido de Paris Trail.
The only bears would be the ones in the topless circus show, mock-boxing the naked models wearing only 50-ounce gloves and lotsa baby oil to better illuminate all hidden skin surfaces.

Sure, you couldn’t bring the kids. But who cares. Make more of them while you’re here. Besides, you can’t bring the kids there now and expect to ever see them alive or in one piece again, so who gives a crap. And besides, if they want scenery they can see the same sort of scenery, and some a hell of a lot better in Halo. What do they need to be buggin’ you at The New Yosemite, where you and yer ol’ lady are sneakin’ around to get some Strange for?

All the wars in history, and the accompanying death, plagues, famines, poverty, ruin, anguish, torment and decay have been made possible by people on the public payroll. Civil Servants. This include presidents, generals, soldiers, legislators, cops, meter maids, DMV slugs, licensers, inspectors, clerks, other clerks, clerks down the hall, and the clerks over there on the public payroll out on permanent disability: Simple clerks and complex clerks who want to stay on the public payroll at all costs otherwise they will have to live off themselves for a living instead of off of others.
“Problematical History,” the history they teach in school, or on other words the history of governments on earth, or in other words, the history of war, is not caused by “states” or “governments” or “emperors” or “kings” or “dictators” or “oppressors” or “ideologies” or plots or usurpers or coups or secret societies or combines or moguls or multinationals or destiny or insane looney OCD-based religions.
Problematical History is caused by the hordes of form-handlers and paper shufflers on the public payroll, quietly, stupidly, unknowingly, moving human history along in a continuing, aimless, recurring circle. People on the public payroll stab their consciences to death after they cash their first tax-extorted paycheck.
Then they charge forward with their faces downward into a lifetime of self-loathing for which you are going to have to pay through the mass destruction they will eventually make possible, after which it will all fall and crumble, and a new horde of public employees will come into being, doing absolutely nothing and insisting that they are absolutely necessary, and getting you to believe it because you’re just as intellectually lazy as they are, since it would take an actual smidgeon of effort to think something different than what people have refused to admit for 10,000 years, namely, that the “public sector” serves no purpose except as a public dormitory for individuals unwilling to take responsibility for themselves, which I’m sure basically pretty much describes, certainly everyone in office, and certainly everyone not in office picking up a paycheck for a job a five year old could do better and more energetically. And if you think you’re not lazy it could be you just weren’t fortunate enough to get a civil servant job to put that hidden, ready-to-show-itself laziness to its best and immediate and enthusiastic use.
This is a theory I have originated as a result of my experiences in Yosemite Valley. It is the theory that all government “employees” operate genetically on a reverse-selection contra-dynamic resulting in their cannibalizing their “customers.” And I don’t mean by recruiting them into service. I mean by eating them.
A miniaturized, observable example of this theory is available from a studied observation of Yosemite help. A thought that would have Lucifer himself sit bolt upright in bed from out of a sound sleep would be that the misshapen shaggy goof-offs inhabiting the job slots at Yosemite are actually breeding.
Even more uncomfortable would be the thought that would have God Himself pulling Himself suddenly to the edge of His Own Bed, and that thought would be that they are breeding to each other. Which is clearly the case, judging from the appearance and behavior of the youngsters. Who live in the really nice, off limits houses.
This unnerving situation will eventually result in entire generations of people who will have Yosemite Valley as their birthplace: feral, portly, expressionless troglodytes who will eventually become part of the indigenous wildlife. Then it will be forbidden to hurt them. Right now, they don’t officially have that status.
They may be feral already, in fact, because it has been the theory of many visitors that their caches of food are not being broken into by bears at all but by the glob circular, human circular quadrupeds who waddle and plod around here and there on the public payroll.
The more you observe them the more you notice that they are remarkably bearlike in shape and movement. Gathered together in a herd at the perimeter of a campsite at 4 in the morning and slowly entering on their hands and knees in rolling unison, huffing occasionally and dragging things off – who would run out into the darkness, bleary with sleep and nervous with apprehension to investigate?
The lobby of the Lodge currently has a bulletin board filled with scores of Polaroid flash-pictures of cars-in-darkness with their doors ripped off or tweaked into mobius strips, roofs peeled back, windows pulverized, all headlined with the warning that if you leave food in the car this will happen to you. It’s your fault. Supposedly the bears are doing this. And yet the help; each earning 2 dollars and hour and working 6 days a week, all weigh 500 pound apiece. They’re getting the food from somewhere, and the food available at the eateries would certainly make a MacDonalds critic change his whole attitude about ragging on corporate fast food, so they can’t be eating the stuff they themselves are serving. That leaves your stuff.

If there is a positive side to all this, it is that soon there may not be a Yosemite at all. It seems to be suffering an increasing series of natural disasters. A fire, two astoundingly ruinous huge landslides – or I should say graniteslides – and a rampagingly heinous flood and washout have so traumatized the habitat that all that remains is for an earthquake to shatter it and a volcano to cover the pieces and seal it up with eternal cement. For then – for once – Yosemite Valley will truly be peaceful and quiet. All the government employees will be dead.
--J.J. Solari

Chance of a lifetime. Click and join.
Chance of a lifetime. Click and join.

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Reader Comments

I visited Yosemite in the late 1960s and 1970s before the crowds. I even survived the tent cabins and bears in the campground. I thought the bears were part of the entertainment.

The biggest complaint my dad's aunt and uncle had, who were with us, were with all of the "damm hippies" that seemed to be there. Maybe I was young, but I had a good experience. I'm not sure I'd want to go visit today. I've heard plenty of negative things about the traffic and crowds. If I want to experience those I just stay where I am now.

As to J.J. 's suggestion to build a dam there, go to the valley next to it where the Hetch Hetchy dam is. I have seen pictures of the valley before the dam and while it was nice, I shudder to think what a mess it would be today with it being managed by the park services. So maybe the dam isn't such a bad idea after all.

Jim Weed
San Diego, CA
Wednesday, February 15, 2023
Editor Response Thanks brother. J.J. will get a kick out of your response.

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