Playing Mermaids in Watering Holes
July 4, 2025 | John Muir Trail to Vogelsang Lake, Bernice Lake, and Rafferty Creek
The hardest part of any trip is leaving. The laboring zip of the overstuffed backpack, the stealing glances at the clock, the last cup of coffee (or toilet run), the moment when the city air hasn’t yet given way to pine. We packed the car, kissed goodbye to the ordinary, and drove east toward Tuolumne.
Day 1: Flat Ground, Heavy Skies
We started in Lyell Canyon, a place stitched into memory from the John Muir Trail and the softer hours of day hikes with former lovers. It always begins the same way: a long, flat meadow that lets you believe, for a while, that backpacking isn’t so hard. At altitude, with weight on your shoulders, the trail feels generous.
A mile in, we stopped for stretches like any good hikers. That’s when the thunder began. Clouds thickened, lightning cracked, and soon rain swept through. Some of us shrugged into raincoats; others of us cinched trash bags around us.
Ducking under a sappy tree, where resin clung to the sleeves and the air smelled sharp and green, we chowed our burritos, each burrito holding more structural integrity than you’d expect.
What began as a pause for dinner became home for the night. The ground had turned to sponge. We staked tents on wet earth and carved a shallow trench, coaxing the water to flow anywhere but into a tent. By morning, the reluctant stream had dried, and we’d slept warm and dry.
Day 2: Fletcher’s Temptation, Bernice’s Reward
After breakfast and a quick dip, two rangers appeared at our campsite, asking for permits and bear cans. Mine was buried deep at the bottom of my pack, a place no hiker willingly revisits. I was spared the excavation and allowed instead to thump the pack to prove it was there.
The climb out of Lyell Canyon wound through shaded forest and mossy springs. To ease the steady uphill, I filled the silence with questions until a rhythm emerged, footsteps stitched to stories.
At the turnoff to Ireland Lake, the rangers appeared again, almost as if conjured. One asked for our permits a second time, and for a moment I felt a pang of surprise, maybe even hurt?, that she didn’t recognize us. Then I remembered: out here, we are all nearly indistinguishable, in our sun-hoodies, neutral colored hiking pants, and wide-brim caps.
We kept climbing into a granite amphitheater: classic Yosemite, stone stairs rising step by step, views widening with each bend.
And then, suddenly, or at least that is how it felt, we stepped onto a plateau where a vast lake spread across flat stone, all perched as if by accident on the mountaintop. I had remembered almost nothing after the turnoff from Lyell, but this place returned exactly as it had before: the wind pressing against my face, the lake glistening, Yosemite falling away beneath my feet. Bleak and achingly beautiful. And there, carried perhaps by the wind or by memory itself, the rangers appeared again.
In the hills above Evelyn Lake, we sat down to a lunch of dry tortillas, flavorless salami, and lactose-filled cheese, cheese that one of us (me) should not have been eating at all (oops).
Dropping down, we stumbled upon Fletcher Lake. Wildflowers embroidered the shore, sun-warmed slabs of granite invited us to stretch out, and Fletcher Peak loomed. We swam, laughed, dried in the sun, and considered staying. But the map tugged us onward.
We continued to Vogelsang Lake and over Vogelsang Pass. At the ridge, not to be dramatic, but God was clearly testing us. Bernice Lake lingered in the distance; the downhill punishing, the uphill beyond it cruel (see below). We wobbled, promising God favors for less time on our feet.
We kept moving. Downhill. Shoes off for a freezing creek. Mosquitoes everywhere. Then uphill, omg.
At last, we arrived at Bernice, and there was not another soul (not even mosquito souls!) in sight. We strung up the hammock, watched the shadows stretch across the water, and cooked a perfect trail dinner: couscous laced with a homemade spice blend, brightened with dried fruit, almonds, and slices of vegan sausage. Food is flavor, but it is also context, and here, among the trees and granite, it was perfection.
Day 3: Where did time go?
The next morning unspooled gently: swinging in the hammock, reading short stories, lingering in solitude. Eventually, we traced our way back toward Fletcher, dipped again, and then I veered off to the upper lakes. There, marmots gossiped, and glassy water mirrored jagged peaks.
Dinner that night was black bean soup, quesadillas (cold cheese folded into tortillas), and another delicious spice blend, proof that even in the backcountry, meals can feel magnificent.
Day 4: One Last Watering Hole
Our last day traced Rafferty Creek, the trail uneven yet kind in its downward pull, wide views of Tuolumne unfolding in the sun. At the edge of the trailhead, we stopped, claimed a swimming hole, and played mermaids: splish-splashing, laughing, fanning hair in the water, before the world claimed us again.
Route & Permit
We backpacked using the Yosemite wilderness permit for “Lyell Canyon (No Donohue Pass),” following this route.
You are an amazing writer! Thoroughly enjoyed your journey. 💖
Thanks for taking us on a journey with you...through the gorgeous pictures and heartfelt descriptions.
Love your writings. Not hard to do when you are the mother!