JOANNA CAREW

A short series of reflections from the road: following my five-week adventure across the American West.

Day 4, Yosemite Valley 🧗‍♀️

I thought I was prepared: as a climbing geek I’ve seen the documentaries, read the books, quizzed pals on their trips to the valley, and traced the route maps, but nothing – absolutely nothing – prepared me for the moment El Capitan loomed into view.

We’d left our little cabin in the woods and headed into the valley, Alfie was nursing a slightly dodgy tummy but was desperately trying not to put a dampener on the day. So, I was chatting away about granite and the legends, whilst still trying to be sympathetic – and not completely geek out – when suddenly, unmistakably, there it was: El Capitan, the wall I’ve dreamed about since I was a little girl.

You might have seen it – Alex Honnold brought El Capitan to the masses in his Academy Award winning movie Free Solo, when he scaled the 900m monolith without ropes and survived to tell the tale? Epic!!! For me though, it’s the story of Lynn Hill that touched my heart …

Lynn was the first person – not just the first woman – to free climb The Nose on El Capitan, but what stayed with me most was her back story. Years earlier she’d fallen over 70ft in a freak accident and very nearly died. Her recovery was brutal and entirely self-driven; no fanfare, no shortcuts, just sheer grit … and her reward was El Cap.

I learned about Lynn’s story through my dear friend, mentor, and climbing partner, Pete. When I was in the darkest of places – post-breakdown and lost in anxiety and depression – Pete visited me and handed me Lynn’s autobiography, Climbing Free. “Read this,” he said, “if she got through it, so can you.”

That book helped save my life and, now all these years later, here I was, sitting at the foot of that very wall. Strong, healthy, thriving, and that’s why the moment undid me completely.

I gathered myself together and felt like I was living in a bubble the whole day, it was pure magic. Alfie soon felt much better and together we set off on our mini pilgrimage to El Capitan, walking around 20km, taking in the magnificent Yosemite Falls, and paying homage to El Capitan from every angle!

The temperature was a sweltering 37-degrees centigrade, so we paused at intervals to paddle and swim in the river. Then found ourselves repeatedly gawping up at the wall, trying to contemplate its scale and accomplishments of the climbing legends.

Then Came the Bear … 🐻

Next to the footpath, lounging in a meadow just ahead of us, was a browny coloured black bear. Bathed in sunlight like some wild, prehistoric goddess. She saw us. We saw her. Just the three of us. Nobody moved.

It was one of the most extraordinary moments of my life – equal parts of fear and awe. She was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel real, majestic, muscular, and terrifying; you could sense her power instantly. We were utterly silent, Alfie and I, and completely still. There was no bravado, no “what do we do now,” just an unspoken agreement that we were in her world, and we were going to show her the respect that she deserved. We stood there for what felt like forever, just watching her breathe, blink, turn her head, and settle back into the grass.

She stood up, but wasn’t headed anywhere, she peacefully continued to enjoy the sunshine, and kept one eye on her visitors. It was mesmerising, and utterly, utterly humbling.

There’s something beguiling about Yosemite, something raw, ancient, and watchful. We left the valley reeling that day. Humbled by the mountain, humbled by the bear, humbled by the fact we got to be there at all. 

More than anything, I felt overwhelmed by the deepest sense of gratitude: For Yosemite, vast wild and so utterly alive. For nature, in all its raw beauty. For my life – for surviving, for recovering, for being well. And for getting the chance to share it all with my boy, Alfie, watching him take it in, walk beside me, stand in silent awe just as I did. It was a day that gave me more than I could ever have dreamed.

A day like this reminds you just how precious it all is. A reminder of the beauty of life, of the light after so much darkness. It felt like touching something slightly beyond this world, and I know I’ll never ever forget it.