An Honored Latecomer

I have never seen a full moon actually rise in Yosemite. The tall trees and granite walls just never seemed to afford a clear view of what has occurred over 800 times in my lifetime. So one evening, hoping for a front-row seat, I set out from Upper Pines Campground at about nine o'clock to see what I could find.

It didn't take long. Near Stoneman Meadow, I joined a small group of expectant moon-watchers standing in the middle of the road just beyond Camp Curry, where the meadow opens to the sky. Like a temptress, the moon slowly unveiled her circular brilliance above the dark outline of Half Dome. What a show. Truly worth the price of admission — a casual walk in Yosemite Valley after dark.

Delighted but not yet ready to return to camp, I wandered on. Past the late-nighters at the food shops, past shuttle stops 14 and 15, and on toward Clark's Bridge, one of the cement and stone bridges spanning the Merced River near the entrances to Upper and Lower Pines Campgrounds. By now it was nearing ten o'clock. The campgrounds had gone quiet. The ten o'clock curfew had settled over the Valley like a second darkness.

I stood alone on the bridge, looking out over the lazy Merced. Upstream, Half Dome anchored the night sky — and the moon, because of the steep angle from where I stood, had apparently slipped behind its granite backside. Gone again. No wonder moonrises had eluded me all these years. By the time they became visible, I was always tucked into a tent or secured in a cabin, missing the moment entirely.

I stayed. I scanned the ridgeline. Slowly, a bright spot appeared in the darkness, growing brighter and brighter until the moon made its second glorious appearance of the evening, its light spilling over the silhouette of Half Dome and spreading across the still surface of the Merced below. I looked up, then down at the reflection, my head moving like someone reading credits from a well-produced film. Two moonrises. One night. A bargain I had not anticipated.

And then I heard it.

From somewhere behind me and to the right came an unfamiliar sound — plickety plack, plickety plack — rhythmic and deliberate, growing louder with each beat. My subconscious refused to categorize it and let it go. Something about the sound demanded attention.

I stayed focused on the moon. The plickety placking continued. Louder now.

Distracted in my efforts to observe this second moonrise, I became annoyed. I thought of the late theater-goer. You know the type. He arrives just as the opening scene begins, squeezing past knees and stepping on toes, pinging sharp elbows against unprotected heads, rattling a bag of something crunchy that will apparently last the entire film. He finds his seat — directly behind you, naturally — and spends the next five minutes adjusting, sighing, and excavating the bottom of that bag for the one remaining piece he absolutely cannot leave behind. By the time he settles, you've missed the scene that explained everything that follows. You smile tightly at the screen and say nothing, because you are a civilized person. But you are not happy.

That was the latecomer I was bracing for when the plickety placking stopped directly behind me. 

That was the latecomer I was bracing for when the plickety placking stopped directly in front of me.

I gave in and turned around.

Nothing. The road appeared empty. My eyes, still dilated from staring at the moon, struggled to recalibrate to the darkness.

Silence. 

Every sense pushed to perceive what stood there. Slowly, the outline emerged: an enormous mule deer buck, motionless in the road, regarding me with the calm authority of someone who had every right to be here and knew it.

My annoyance dissolved completely. This was no intruder. This was royalty arriving fashionably late to an event he had no obligation to attend — and choosing, for reasons entirely his own, to stop and share it with the one audience member still awake.

He peered at me. I stood still. I felt small and humbled in the best possible way — the way Yosemite has of reminding you, without apology, of your actual place in things.

There was no admission fee for this honored latecomer. He had, in every meaningful sense, stock in the theatre's ownership. I gladly shared my row with him.

Together, we watched the moon hold its position above Half Dome. Together, we stood in the quiet of a Valley that had gone to sleep around us. Together, we did these things — the two of us, all for the price of one.