Intuitive Alignment at Glen Aulin

“Live in each season as it passes;

breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit,

and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”

― Henry David Thoreau, American Author

From:  Walden or Life in the Woods (1854)

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In an age when even wilderness must be scheduled, reserved, and secured with the quickness of a keystroke, the simple act of camping has acquired a paradoxical character. One seeks escape from civilization by first submitting to its most frantic rituals. Yosemite National Park, the grand cathedral of granite and water, offers no exemptions. From May through September, its campgrounds—especially those within Yosemite Valley—are claimed within minutes of their release online, snapped up by unseen hands across glowing screens. To secure a few nights beneath the pines can bring a joy nearly equal to the camping itself, a small triumph of perseverance over probability.

And yet, beyond the reach of fiber-optic cables and reservation clocks, the land still keeps its own counsel. In the wilderness, where Backpackers’ Campgrounds wait quietly on a first-come, first-served basis, one must once again rely on older faculties: patience, observation, and a willingness to be guided by the earth itself (not to mention the Wilderness Permit a person must have in hand won by lottery in advance).

My plan carried me first to the Glen Aulin High Sierra Camp, perched at 7,840 feet and newly dusted with snow from a passing storm. Upon arrival, I performed the familiar rites of temporary settlement—unloading my pack, learning the temperament of the wood stove, and acquainting myself with the canvas cabin that would shelter me for one night. But comfort in the mountains is never guaranteed by walls alone. Cold is a persistent negotiator, and so I set off in search of fuel.

GLEN AULIN HIGH SIERRA CAMP

Halfway up a granite ridge east of the cabins, I found fallen timber waiting patiently, as if set aside for this very purpose. The labor of busting wood into stove-sized pieces in thin air warms more than the hands; it restores a sense of earned belonging. With sufficient fuel gathered for both evening and morning, I felt aligned once more with the rhythms of this remote refuge.

Only then did I turn my attention to the Backpackers’ Campground northwest of the High Sierra Camp, where I hoped to spend the next three nights. I began my search among the lower sites, numbered one through ten, and quickly discovered that proximity to convenience often exacts a quiet toll. These sites, though close to toilets, water spigots, and food lockers, sat lower and damper, accommodating more people and diminishing the sense of solitude that draws one into the backcountry in the first place.

GLEN AULIN BACKPACKERS' CAMPGROUND

As I wandered, I reflected on how the very ground beneath one’s feet communicates its preferences, if only we listen. Glen Aulin itself bears a name born of invitation—Gleann Alainn, Gaelic for “beautiful valley”—bestowed by James McCormick of the U.S. Geographic Board. This tranquil valley sits about a mile west of where the High Sierra Camp is currently located.  The Tuolumne River slows there, resting from its headlong descent, as it winds through aspen, fir, and pine. It would seem an ideal place to linger.

And yet beauty, unchecked, may harbor its own trials. The original High Sierra Camp had to be abandoned when mosquitoes declared squatter’s rights in overwhelming numbers. The camp moved, and wisely so, for the mosquitoes were unlikely to be persuaded to do the same.  At White Cascades, the camp found refuge in a forested enclave guarded by granite uprisings where both humans and insects reached an agreeable truce.

Continuing my search for a campsite, I examined sites fifteen through nineteen, higher up on the granite ridge to the east.  They were more exposed and clustered close enough to one another to share not only views but every gust of wind.  I continued my travels on the main trail and then veered westward on a less worn stub trail up to the rocky ridge that overlooked Conness Creek.  Several fine sites offered seclusion, but, again, surrendered too easily to the elements. Each place had merit, but none spoke clearly enough to say, Here.

Then, just as I turned back toward the main trail, I noticed a fire ring tucked discreetly to the right, sheltered by the very ridge I had just descended. It seemed to have been hiding in plain sight, waiting not to be discovered so much as recognized. Perhaps the very attempt to be “first” to claim a suitable site and the franticness that accompanies that effort distracted me from finding the very thing I was looking for.  I stopped, took a deep breath, and surveyed the location.  Then I slowly stepped closer.  I found a soft, level patch of earth nearby sized perfectly for my one-person tent.  This site seemed as though it had been shaped by many seasons of quiet approval.

It felt, for a moment, almost improbable.

I tested the ground with my boots, leveled the space gently, and resolved to return in the morning after breakfast to set up my tent. As I lingered, the site revealed its subtleties: a thoughtfully constructed fire ring, stones arranged naturally for sitting, trees that offered both shelter and intimacy, and a granite wall standing sentinel against the wind. From this perch, I could look down upon the lower sites without feeling above them—only apart.

It would be foolish to claim that this site was objectively superior to all others. Clearly, it had been passed over by many before me. But therein lies the quiet lesson. Each of us carries an internal compass for belonging, a personal geometry of comfort and harmony. What calls to one may remain invisible to another.

Perhaps this is what the sages mean by balance, by an intuitive alignment often described in other cultures as Feng Shui. The land does not declare perfection; it invites discernment. When the right place is found, there is no fanfare, only a subtle easing of the spirit, a release of frantic rituals, and a sense that effort may finally give way to rest.

In such moments, one understands that the joy of finding a campsite is not merely about shelter or convenience. It is about listening—truly listening—to the land, and allowing it, briefly, to guide one home, even if only for a few days.