Yosemite Falls (2025): Calling All Coneheads!

"Shall we go, you and I, while we can

Through

The transitive nightfall of diamonds?"

"

"Dark Star"

Song by the Grateful Dead (1968)

Dark Star lyrics © Ice Nine Publishing Co., Inc., Ice Nine Publishing Co Inc.

---

Every winter, as the temperatures drop and the granite walls of Yosemite Valley glint with a frosty solemnity, an unusual community stirs. They arrive with cameras, thermoses,  and a curious blend of reverence and excitement usually reserved for limited-edition vinyl releases or surprise tech product drops. They are the Coneheads—no relation, to be abundantly clear, to the extraterrestrial family from Saturday Night Live who famously consumed “mass quantities” of anything within grabbing radius. Those Coneheads are from Remulak. These Coneheads, the Yosemite variety, are from Earth—mostly. And they tend to pack lunches of far more reasonable proportions.

Before anyone panics about nomenclature, let us distinguish these winter aficionados from two other groups whose names may cause confusion. First, the fictional Remulakian Coneheads had elongated craniums that tapered to a point, a feature not yet biologically trending (thankfully) among even the most ardent Yosemite faithful. The other group, the conehead insects, are known for their “loud raspy or buzzy songs,” a trait that would prove deeply counterproductive during icy-windy mornings at the base of Upper Yosemite Fall, when human Coneheads are more likely to whisper reverently, “Wow, that’s a big cone,” than break into chitin-backed musical theatrics.

No, the Coneheads in question are an entirely different breed—akin not to aliens or insects but to the loyal clan of Deadheads who have followed the Grateful Dead in various permutations for decades. Coneheads are similar in spirit, if not soundtrack: committed, observant, full of winter devotion, and willing to make a pilgrimage to witness something fleeting, natural, and profoundly unnecessary to the continuity of daily life—precisely the kind of experience that makes life worth living.

The Deadheads, of course, find community wherever a tribute band plugs in, or wherever Reddit and Facebook debates over which version of “Dark Star” reigns supreme continue long into the night. Coneheads, on the other hand, have only one venue. There is no national tour. There is no extended setlist. There are no encore requests. There is only Yosemite National Park—specifically, the amphitheater of granite, mist, and winter air at the base of Upper Yosemite Fall.

And what they come to see is not a band but a phenomenon: the annual rise of the ice cone.

This cone, affectionately known as the “snow cone,” forms as icy mist from Upper Yosemite Fall plummets and freezes during its descent.  With a reliable winter cold streak and the constant pounding of snow and ice sheets that calve from the wall above, the pile grows and grows, rising into a monumental frozen mound that occasionally reaches a staggering 400 to 500 feet. Think of it as Earth’s attempt at artisanal ice sculpture—one that requires no chainsaws, no sculpting teams in parkas, and no jury of winter festival judges.

Despite its popularity among Coneheads, this towering wonder receives no Guinness World Record recognition. Guinness, in its infinite sense of seriousness, has cataloged the largest snow cone as a “Birthday Cake” flavored 11.38-ton entry created in Lubbock, Texas, by Bahama Buck’s Original Shaved Ice Company in 2011. An admirable feat, yes, but one feels compelled to point out that the Yosemite snow cone exceeds that weight before breakfast and likely lacks the artificial dye, sugar syrup, and celebratory marketing campaign. It is, however, universally acknowledged to be the colder of the two and considerably more photogenic.

Admittedly, the Yosemite cone is not available in a rainbow of flavors. There is no cherry, no grape, no neon blue raspberry. But if you use your imagination—and ignore basic food safety—perhaps its “Yosemite Flavor” could be likened to something crisp, wild, and slightly granite-forward. For those who prefer more traditional treats, it is still less impactful on dental work than Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia flavored ice cream, though Coneheads might argue that the Upper Yosemite Fall cone comes in at a very respectable second place in terms of overall character.

The Coneheads themselves form a quiet, steadfast community. They do not carry tie-dye banners or wander the valley in VW buses (well, some do, but correlation is not causation). Their pilgrimage happens only during the cold months, when the ice cone reaches its annual crescendo. No one is scalping tickets. No one is selling commemorative T-shirts, though one suspects an entrepreneurial spirit somewhere in the park has considered it. The group gathers in a sort of respectful amazement that nature can build such a towering monument, year after year, with no sponsorship deals, no fundraising, and no social media manager.

Every movement has its founding figure, and the Conehead Community is no exception. While many know John Muir as the first president of the Sierra Club, the father of national parks, and the man whose beard alone could probably have petitioned Congress, fewer know of his affinity for the ice cone itself. According to his own writings, Muir once climbed the cone—yes, climbed it—presumably because he saw it as the purest expression of Yosemite’s winter joy. Or perhaps because he simply couldn’t leave a geological feature unconquered. Either way, this puts him in elite company: not just a naturalist, not just a philosopher, but the original King of the Coneheads.

One imagines him presiding atop the mound like a benevolent monarch, frost in beard, journal in hand, saying something quietly profound while icy mist drifted past. Today’s Coneheads can take pride in such distinguished lineage. Not every community can claim a founder who treated a 400-foot frozen pile as an appropriate venue for spiritual contemplation, physical exertion, and probably minor hypothermia.

Given Muir’s leadership credentials, it seems only fair to nominate him as the Conehead Community’s eternal, posthumous president. While he can no longer attend meetings—chiefly because Conehead meetings do not technically exist—his spirit lives on in every winter visitor who stands in the valley, neck craned, admiring the cone that first captured his imagination.

In fact, the movement deserves its own commercial tribute. Perhaps Ben & Jerry’s could be persuaded to create a limited-edition flavor in honor of the great ice cone itself. Something brisk. Something bold. Something appropriately minty. “Icy Mint Muir” could sweep freezer aisles with the refreshing force of a Sierra winter storm. The container artwork could feature Muir atop the cone, looking pleased and slightly windburned—a man who would absolutely choose frozen dairy homage over another bronze statue.

Until that day arrives, Coneheads will continue their winter journeys. They will trek into Yosemite Valley at the crack of dawn, bundled to a near-spherical shape, to watch the winter wind sweep spindrift from the cone’s summit. They will marvel at how something so ephemeral can also be so monumental. They will trade stories, photos, and possibly homemade trail snacks of questionable density. And when the spring melt eventually claims the cone, they will disperse, waiting patiently for the cold months to summon them again.

For now, the community stands strong. Loyal. Cheerfully eccentric. And utterly devoted to the towering natural snow cone that no human engineer could hope to replicate.

Calling all Coneheads indeed. Winter has arrived; the cone awaits.

ICE CONE FORMATION

IMAGES FROM VIDEO BELOW COURTESY OF YOSEMITE CONSERVANCY. 

MOVIE COURTESY OF HALFDOME.NET.

February 23, 2019