This is a warning to all of you that have felt compelled to swim bare-arsed in some piece of private paradise that you convinced yourself you discovered. It is also a warning to anyone that does not plan things in advance.
My trip to Yosemite National Park did not go at all to plan, looking back it’s because I didn’t have one. My first problem was checking in to the hostel, as I had convinced myself I could simply turn up and find a bed for the night. The trouble was that every single other guest had made reservations, meaning I had to sit around for about three hours scratching my dirty bits while they all checked in. Eventually I was allowed to stay, so after finding a bunk, I treated myself to one of the hostels delicious meals, brought a bottle of red wine and proceeded to dribble out my tales of adventure to anyone I thought needed to listen.
The next day some of the other guests informed me they were heading into the park and although reluctant to deny them the further pleasure of my company, I decided to get some supplies, so I jumped on the bus to Mariposa.
Once on the bus I soon discovered the only return bus to the hostel would leave within half an hour of my arrival in Mariposa. However, the bus driver informed me that the buses could often run up to a hour late, so I figured there was no real need to worry. Besides, the ride only took ten minutes so I decided I could walk it in an hour if I had to.
Two hours later I realised that I had missed the bus, so for reassurance I asked the nearby tourist information staff how long it would take to walk back to the hostel. I assumed that if it was further than I had thought, they would take pity on me and drive me there. They didn’t give me a lift but they did inform me that it was at least a seven hour walk.
I spent the next twenty minutes wandering round the car park trying to catch the eye of the owners of the winebagoes and lorries. The trouble was, instead of coming across as desperate and frightened, I seemed to come across as a psycho with a shopping bag. I thought about crying in an attempt to command some sympathy but one of the truckers yelled “What the hell you looking at boy?” in my direction, so I decided to do a runner.
After some deliberation I decided that my only option now was to hitch hike. It was not something that I had done before but no one that I had met during my trip had experienced any problems when they had done it. I was actually surprised at how easy it was. However, I failed to think at the time that those who had encountered problems probably wouldn’t be telling anyone about them.
The first ride I caught took just ten minutes of hitching. Conversation was a little restricted as the guy had spent most of his life in the woods, cutting down trees and refused to hear about mine. However, he didn’t have his chainsaw with him and dropped me off about half way without threatening me so I felt quite happy by the time I caught the second ride.
The second vehicle I climbed into was a banged up old pick-up truck. As the truck pulled up I could make out two featureless silhouettes in the front. One of which stuck its thumb out of the window without saying a word and pointed to the back of the truck. I was having far too much fun at this point to question the scenario and the idea of bombing down a country highway in the back of a pick-up truck was far to appealing, so I climbed in without a word.
For about the first ten minutes of the journey I was having the time of my life, sitting in the back of that truck with the wind blowing in my hair, fantastic landscape whizzing by and little flies exploding on my teeth and forehead. But in an instant it all went horribly wrong, and feelings of delight turned to terror as the truck swung violently to the right down a dirt track off the main highway and away from the hostel. My heart sank as fear and sickness began to rise in my stomach. I looked down as dust from the dirt track flew beneath me, too fast to jump without breaking my legs. My mind flooded with that “squeal
piggy squeal” scene from Deliverance.
