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| Justin Zeringue and Sequoia 2026 |
Felled trees in great quantities and droves of chainsawed lumber paint the view and define the landscape. Parts of it feel almost apocalyptic; other parts, heavenly and celestial. Dead and plentiful, yet life persists among it all. A single white-headed, faintly yellow-beaked, large brown-feathered frame—an American Bald Eagle—sat atop a gray, fire-damaged pine tree in solitude along State Route 41, which merges into Wawona Road at Yosemite’s southernmost entrance in the middle Sierras of California. A massive section, scarred by a not-so-distant fire, had devastated thousands of acres of forest. Long tree stalks, no leaves, branches gone. Gray. Burnt. Charcoal. And there, in plain sight: a bald eagle. I think: how would Emerson describe this bird of prey? Two words: self-reliant.
At the perimeter of one of America's premier national treasures, just before entering Yosemite National Park, we saw our first real creature—a moment we would have missed if not for the other onlookers who had pulled off to the side of the road. One sightseer stood with a cell phone, pinch-zooming for a better shot, while another, next to their Subaru Outback, came prepared for the moment with a 35mm camera fitted with a magnificent, long black zoom lens. We glimpsed the scene from a quick 15 mph drive-by on the narrow, windy road—Justin at the wheel, me navigating, Shawn in the back as she disdains twisty, narrow roads. I suggested we stop for a closer look, but to no avail; we kept going. It was my first American Bald Eagle sighting. Such was the beginning of our two-day trip from Los Angeles—leaving behind emails, traffic, and the urgency of daily life to embrace nature on a must-see, bucket-list Spring Break getaway. Just north, about five hours away, lies the national park renowned for its majestic granite peaks and composed, dignified, and heroic Sugar and Ponderosa Pines.
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| Shawn and Justin bridge before the Mist Trail head, 2026 |
I begin to feel small and insignificant as I approach Yosemite Valley. A pit stop lets us take in the picturesque scenery, often captured by artists and oil painters—the iconic Wawona Tunnel view, with El Capitan on the left, Bridalveil Falls on the right, and, in the background, a sliver of granite: Half Dome. The day is a parking frenzy, from environmentally conscious SUV and Tesla owners to massive 28-foot sightseeing buses filled with camera-toting foreign visitors, including us, all vying for a glimpse and a photo of the breathtaking view—each of us eager to claim our "been there, done that" moment.
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| El Capitan in the background 2026 |
Towering trees—pines and firs—reach for the sky, their leafy branches protruding from rock cliffs and the valley floor between El Capitan and Bridalveil Falls. Standing next to them, you can’t help but feel small. Coming from the southern or western entrance to Yosemite, we arrived during the winter melt. Luckily, we were met with sunshine and a temperate climate—chilly enough for a sweatshirt in the morning and midday shade, but warm enough for t-shirts and joggers in the sun. Shawn had made reservations at Yosemite Lodge last winter as we planned our trip—except for the girls, whose schedules didn’t match up with Justin and Shawn's week off.
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| pizza at The Deck |
We slept at Yosemite Lodge—a modern, motel-style room with two twin beds, a shower, a small fridge, a wall-mounted television, and, for those of us who depend on technology, a WiFi password. Behind the lodge, a small foot-worn trail leads to a smooth, calm stretch of the Merced River. After a brief five-minute walk in sandals, I squat down to touch the running water—it’s shockingly cold, like fresh-melted snow. On our first evening, after a short hike near Yosemite Lower Falls, we devoured fresh oven-fired pizza at The Deck in Curry Village.
Yosemite Lodge also has a cafeteria with large touchscreens for ordering breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus standard grab-and-go options, a grill, and—for those of us who need caffeine—fresh-brewed coffee with sugar and cream.
There’s even a Starbucks nearby, where I happily sipped a hot Venti Pike with a full heart of gratitude the morning we drove home. I wondered what John Muir would think if he could see all the visitors at Yosemite today—transported somehow to the 21st century to witness these annual gatherings. I appreciate my technology, but also question how I would have fared almost 150 years ago, when El Capitan first astonished early travelers. I’m grateful for the work of Presidents Lincoln and Roosevelt, whose efforts made this a national treasure; without them, the land might have been developed and lost to privatization.
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| Justin having Pizza |
After a restless night of sleep, sharing a twin bed with Shawn, we woke to a quiet morning. Birds chirped just outside our door, and ground squirrels bustled around, unafraid and used to tourists. The presence of Lower Yosemite Falls was unmistakable as soon as we stepped outside—stillness, not many tourists. Still. Dignified. Reverent. The sound of the falls, gushing on the northern side of our lodge, filled the valley—a kind of white noise, incessant yet soft and resounding. Audible. Clear. Perceptible. We had a small bite to eat—protein bars, water, a couple of cups of coffee—and packed for our morning hike to the famous Mist Trail and Vernal Falls. We expected the trip to take just under three hours.
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| Shawn and Brian- Ponderosa Pine 2026 |
The paved trail, filled with avid hikers and climbers, attracts visitors from around the world—locals from California, Michigan, Washington, Ohio, and the Carolinas, as well as travelers from Australia and the Netherlands. We took advantage of the park’s shuttle buses—one Green, one Purple (I can’t recall which direction each went)—and on our way to the Mist Trail trailhead, we met other nature lovers, geared up with hiking poles, packs, granola bars, and trail mix.
Parts of the Mist Trail are reinforced and paved like a paseo before turning into a natural path of dirt, rocks, and smooth areas worn by years of foot traffic, gradually climbing toward the pinnacle section of Vernal Falls. The trail lives up to its name just below the falls, where fresh, crisp snowmelt crashes down on colossal granite rocks, instantly vaporizing and aerosolizing into a fine mist that soaks shoes, clothes, and any gear not protected by waterproof material.
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| Mist Trail head 2026 |
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| Justin and Shawn near Vernal Falls on Mist Trail 2026 |
We paused to take photos of the falls, then continued up the granite stone walkway—the so-called “steps”—through a narrow, rail-protected path to the top. Just past the falls' soaking spray, our group became one less as Shawn deliberated between pushing forward and retreating out of fear of vertigo and heights. Justin and I saw Shawn back to the start of the trail, ensured her safety down the paved section, stopped for water and a restroom break, and finally retraced our steps up the path we had all just traversed.
As I followed closely behind Justin, who pushed up the path just faster than I felt capable of, I was overtaken by a dilemma. Should I stop him so we could go back and make sure Shawn got back safely to the visitor area near our lodge, or continue forward with this energetic, athletic, fearless seventeen-year-old, fueled by a full tank of risky behavior? As I wrestled with these thoughts, I prayed.
Breathing a little harder than usual at elevation, I felt the burn in my lungs and my heart pounding, as if it might burst through my chest. My Apple Watch told me my average heart rate was 70-80 bpm, but I could still sense my effort, not a 10 but more than a 5. My mind wandered to my education and training as I looked around at my position on the trail. I thought, if this were the place I suffered a stroke or heart attack, there would be no resuscitation efforts, no AED, no one nearby who could perform CPR—no rescue. And so, I prayed.
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| Vernal Fall on the Mist Trail 2026 |
Under my breath, as I often do before work, I said, “God, thank you for the opportunity to be here outdoors. Forgive me for my many sins, defaults, and errors. Watch over Shawn as she makes her way back to the lodge. Help me keep up with Justin and enjoy our time, and if I should pass out or have a heart attack, forgive me of all my wrongdoing and watch over my three kids and wife. Amen.”
From there, we made it again to the mistiest part of the Mist Trail leading up to Vernal Falls. As we trekked up, I noticed sections of the trail that were intentionally paved, earning it the nickname “the steps” among hikers. In awe, I walked up this section where carefully placed granite chunks—each weighing at least 150-200 pounds—formed innumerable steps. I thought to myself: someone was here before, placing these stones in this rugged terrain. Irregular. Coarse. Unpredictable. Sketchy. Disjointed.
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| Top of Vernal Fall part of the Mist Trail 2026 |
Years ago, there were no steps, no side rails; now there is a path, paved and thoughtfully constructed for future generations. Gratitude and appreciation infused my burning quad muscles, my burning inhalations, and pounding heart as I felt each beat. I struggled to stay on Justin’s heels, who, a few feet ahead, navigated the ascent with ease, strength, and vigor as if he had done this before. I am reminded of the autumn of my life; wear and tear take time to recover, and I am humbled as well. Once at the top, we would take a picture of Vernal Falls, sip more water, and begin our descent.
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