I unwrapped my box of wine from three plastic carrier bags – YHA doesn’t allow alcohol, even in Yosemite – and proudly decanted a cupful of warm Chardonnay. The art of sneaking alcohol runs deep and true in my family genes, fine-tuned over generations of Test Match Cricket. It’d been a long and uneventful drive from LA through California’s Central Valley to Yosemite Bug Hostel, and I was keen to soak up the late afternoon sun on the porch.
Check-in was simple and the bunkhouse overlooking the site was blissfully empty. My book was open, the plastic chair faced the tree-scattered sun and my little cup was warm and bubbling (it was tremendously cheap wine). Before me were pine covered hillsides that stretched forever into the deep blue sky and a rambunctious river rattled through the valley below. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the scent of pine, juniper and earthy dust while songbirds danced unseen in the twigs and shrubs. The porch was my serene temple. I sat alone like Buddha, mindful, on the way to nirvana.
“Heeeelloo rooomiee!”
Twelve hours later, I woke to the sound of a middle aged German man and a young Austrian engaged in snorting laughter and knee slapping. It was 6am and my head was fuzzy. I was surprised the German, let’s call him Werner, was so brim with life as I’d last seen him licking wine off the wooden steps of the cabin porch about four hours ago. But Werner was in the throes of a full blown mid-life crisis: divorce, redundancy, new found twin brother – the lot. He was thus primed to live life to the maximum, a bit like that Jason Statham in Crank. Truth be told, all I wanted right then was for him to be dead.
“What a fucking beautiful day!”
Werner shouted inches from my ear, and simultaneously kicked open the door next to my bunk bed. My eyes stayed shut but I imagined he had that Jack Nicholson glare on his face, hair at all angles, wearing knee-high white socks and boxer shorts. I remained as rigid as a child being sniffed by a t-rex.
Groans and annoyed movements of limbs erupted through the cabin, which housed twelve people in flimsy bunks. A bathroom with two dirty showers and a sink was separated at the end of the room by an insect mesh door. At my end, the thin white door also had an insect mesh but with a two inch gap at the bottom. Perfect for curious tarantulas and an easy grip for bears.
The room smelled of wet socks and walking boots. After a moment of quiet hesitation, the door slammed behind Werner, now Chief from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest making his escape, and he strode off into the forest. And that was it, everyone stirred and moaned some more and sleep would have to wait another day.
The Austrian, Lars, was first to jump out of bed, and started getting dressed as quietly as he could – which on bare floorboards is even worse than doing it loudly because you really have to strain to listen for the next creak. Then the young Slovenian couple de-bunked in unison, stripped completely naked in the middle of the room (my eyes were now open) and walked to the bathroom clutching towels by their sides. There was an English woman further down, thirty going on sixty, the type that goes red during sweary bits of films and drinks three hundred cups of tea a day. I could feel the heat of her flushing cheeks from across the room. An American man made a strange cough and something heavy impacted the wooden cabin wall from his bed. I realised this was my chance to get out before facing Werner again.
Within five minutes of meeting him yesterday I knew every detail of his former life, and the plans for his new one. Before I knew what was going on I was in his hire car driving through Yosemite discussing Thatcher, Nazis, photography and God knows what whilst dodging animals, walls and oncoming cars (“Ooops sorry! I keep forgetting how to drive!”). Werner managed to befriend hundreds of people, in that way recently divorced men far from home tend to do, in a Mario Kart dash between scenic overlooks.
As night fell the situation entered a whole new level of terror, and my outward calm began to deteriorate. In total darkness we had a longer-than-necessary argument about whether America was deliberately trying to kill Germans by refusing to put cats eyes on its roads. I felt things had a potential to go quite wrong. Thankfully, in the midst of the distant shadows of tall trees we finally saw the little glowing lights of the hostel cabins.
But it wasn’t over. Just seconds after parking up Werner stormed into the restaurant, clearly in the midst of closing, and haggled us the two last orders of sauerkraut (really). The bar remained open, so whilst Werner befriended every living thing within a mile, I tried to medicate myself from the situation. At around midnight we crawled through the woods to the cabin and woke everyone up getting my contraband wine out and drinking the remains of the box on the porch.
I was certain we’d made plans for today, but that was simply not an option now. I had to go before he came back.
The sun was not up but the sky was turning from black to grey and I was on the road by 6.25am, screeching onto the tarmac, frantically looking in the mirror like an escaping victim. Weeks later I’d find the cabin door keys in the glove box. They’ve never asked for them back.
Yosemite was beautiful, by the way.
american covfefe 