DAY 2
Pate Valley to Grand Mountain
10.01 miles | 1,998′ ascent | 829′ descent | 94 degrees
The entrance to the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne River
If Day 1 was long, Day 2 was punishing.
I woke up in Pate Valley already warm. The air hadn’t cooled much overnight, and by the time I packed up, ate breakfast, and drank my coffee, it was only 8:30am — and it was already brutally hot. I checked my Garmin InReach. Mid-90s forecast for Yosemite Valley. Which meant hotter down here in the canyon.
Stay hydrated, my friends.
The first mile or two wound through overgrown brush that made route finding just interesting enough to keep me from zoning out. Then the trail opened up onto a flat sandy stretch, and suddenly I was walking directly along the river’s edge — the true beginning of the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne.
For a hundred yards or so, I walked right beside the water. The rapids thundered so loudly they drowned out everything else. That sound would become the soundtrack of this trip. For the next twenty miles, it was the anthem — constant, powerful, relentless.
I settled into a rhythm. Slow but steady. Drink water. Manage sweat. Keep moving.
By 11:30am, after finishing a climb, I looked down and spotted a shaded campsite along the river. Behind it? A steep, fully exposed climb with zero shade.
Decision made. Lunch.
The campsite was incredible — shaded, private, a fire ring, and an unreal swimming hole tucked at the base of rapids and waterfalls. I was drenched in sweat and going through water at an almost alarming rate — about a liter an hour. I filtered, ate, lay in the shade longer than I probably should have, and mentally prepared for what was next.
Because what was next was vertical.
The climb out of the river was exposed and unrelenting. I moved upward in silence, lost in my own head. Alone out there, the mind has room to wander — sometimes productively, sometimes not. I thought about the miles ahead. I thought about the heat. I thought about how much elevation still stood between me and camp.
Rodgers Creek came into view, tumbling beautifully into the Tuolumne through a narrow side canyon. I crossed the bridge over Rodgers Waterfall and paused for a moment, letting the mist cool my face.
Then the trail got weird.
It appeared to go straight up a loose, rocky chute — overgrown, unstable, barely resembling a maintained path. I stared at it for a while, hoping I was wrong.
I wasn’t.
Up I went.
Loose rock. Shifting dirt. Hands occasionally needed. Thirty to forty-five minutes of grinding ascent. Eventually the trail funneled through a pass, became more defined, and then — to my horror — dropped about 200 feet.
Why horror?
Because that descent delivered me to the base of Grand Mountain.
Which meant I’d have to climb it. All of it. Regaining everything I had just fought for — plus the extra I’d just lost.
The switchbacks up Grand Mountain were endless. The heat pressed in. I moved in my typical fashion: push hard, stop, suck air, repeat. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked.
Finally, after one last turn, I crested the top of Grand Mountain.
The view stopped me.
The canyon stretched in both directions, carved and folded and glowing under the brutal sun. The river snaked far below. Somewhere down there, to the left of a bend, was where I’d be camping.
I took a few photos, sat in silence, and tried to convince myself the hardest climbing of the day was over.
I was wrong again.
The descent off Grand Mountain started gently enough. I wasn’t concerned.
Then it got steep.
Then it got loose.
Then it got rocky and overgrown.
Progress slowed to a crawl. At one point I checked my watch — half a mile an hour. Maybe.
The heat was still radiating off the granite. Every step had to be deliberate. The footing was unpredictable. Alone, there’s no one to distract you from discomfort. There’s just you and the grind.
I found myself muttering at the trail. At the rocks. At gravity.
Eventually, the canyon floor began to rise up toward me. I pushed ahead, scouting for a campsite. When I found one near the base of a waterfall, I dropped my pack and walked back downtrail a bit just to confirm there wasn’t anything better. There wasn’t.
Camp, night two.
I scrambled down to the river, peeled off sweat-soaked clothes, and rinsed the salt and dust off in the cold water. The shock of it was glorious. I sat on sun-warmed rocks with my legs submerged, letting the current numb everything.
It was still hot. But it was survivable.
Back at camp, I set up the tent — no rain fly again. Not a cloud in sight. Dinner was freeze-dried Pad Thai Chicken with Sriracha. Appetizer: Cheetos. Gourmet in its own way.
I didn’t bother with a fire. I was too cooked.
I crawled into the tent as the light drained from the canyon walls. The roar of the river below was constant — powerful and strangely comforting.
Sleep came fast and heavy.
Two days in.
And the canyon was far from finished with me.
