DAY 3
Grand Mountain to California Falls
8.58 miles | 2,528′ ascent | 485′ descent | 92 degrees
I opened my eyes to the bluest sky imaginable and sheer granite walls rising a thousand feet straight above camp.
Not a bad ceiling.
Today was nothing but climbing.
But something wasn’t right.
The night before I’d noticed I wasn’t hungry. Food tasted bland. Even things I normally love were suddenly unappealing. Worse? I struggled to drink my coffee. That should’ve been my first real warning sign.
I’ve bonked before — full calorie deficit meltdown — and it isn’t pretty. So I forced down breakfast: some soup and a power bar. It felt mechanical. Necessary. Not enjoyable.
Packed up. First steps of the day? Uphill.
That would be the theme: climb, flatten briefly, climb again, flatten, climb some more.
The sun was already working.
I tracked my water intake. I was averaging around seven liters a day — over two gallons — and barely peeing. The sweat was constant. Shirt soaked. Shorts soaked. Salt crust forming. I was drinking more than I ever had on trail and still felt like I couldn’t keep up.
Mid-morning, as I moved slowly through brush, I heard it.
That unmistakable dry buzz.
A rattle.
I froze.
The Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne is notorious for rattlesnakes, and honestly, I’d been surprised I hadn’t seen one yet. I scanned the brush and there it was — coiled, sliding, irritated at my presence.
I gave it space. It gave me space.
I eased around it and continued climbing.
Adrenaline spike over. Back to the grind.
Waterfalls were everywhere.
Not just small cascades — massive ribbons of water launching thousands of feet from the rim and crashing into the Tuolumne below. It felt like you couldn’t go 45 minutes without seeing something spectacular.
And yet, the canyon was hazy.
Smoky, almost.
I hadn’t heard of any fires. I didn’t smell smoke. But the views softened as the day wore on, distant walls fading into a grayish blur.
After another sustained climb, I began to make out Waterwheel Falls in the distance. That meant Return Creek was close — the beginning of the long climb toward Waterwheel.
I found a shaded spot along the river near powerful rapids and took a much-needed break. I filtered two liters, wedged my bottles safely above me on the rocks, then slid down into the water to cool off.
The cold was perfect.
Eventually I climbed back up, grabbed a snack, and reached for my shoes.
My elbow bumped my bottles.
They rolled.
In slow motion.
Down the rock.
Into the current.
Over the rapids.
Gone.
I never saw them resurface.
I stood there, staring at the water like it might apologize.
This was easily the dumbest mistake I’ve ever made on trail.
What now?
I had one option. As gross as it was, I carry a small squeeze bottle for a backcountry bidet. I cleaned it thoroughly, paired it with my BeFree filter, and that became my water system.
Not ideal. Not dignified. But functional.
Lesson learned.
Return Creek crossed. Then the climb to Waterwheel began.
Long. Sustained. Switchbacking. Fully exposed.
The kind of climb that makes you question previous life choices.
I moved in my usual rhythm — push hard, stop, suck air, repeat — but today it felt different. Heavier. I stopped to chat briefly with a solo hiker heading the opposite direction. When we parted ways, I looked up at the granite wall to trace the switchbacks.
I thought I saw the top.
I was wrong.
The actual trail climbed far higher than I’d guessed.
That was the first moment I genuinely doubted myself.
I was melting.
I climbed beside and above LaConte Falls. It was stunning but difficult to fully appreciate through the haze and exhaustion. The roar of water echoed off the canyon walls.
At Waterwheel Falls, I paused.
For a moment, I considered camping there. I was cooked. Completely drained. But I did the math. I still had a lot of climbing left to reach California Falls — and I needed to be in position to make that bus the next day.
So I kept going.
Somewhere in the middle of the grind, “Love Reign O’er Me” by The Who got stuck in my head. I hadn’t brought AirPods on this trip — I usually don’t when I’m solo — but I found myself wishing I had them.
Instead, I sang out loud.
Changed lyrics.
Yelled at the granite.
Whatever it took to distract from the relentless uphill.
I was moving through pure stubbornness now.
Late in the evening — after more than ten hours on trail — I crested a ridge above California Falls. The trail flattened briefly and I felt a flicker of unease. Was I in the right place? Had I passed something?
Then I saw it.
An enormous swimming hole, impossibly clear, fed directly by a waterfall. A grove of trees nearby. Flat ground.
Perfect.
I dropped my pack.
Home for the night.
Dinner was a struggle.
The thought of food made me gag. I forced bites. Drank water to wash it down. It felt wrong — my body rejecting what it clearly needed. Maybe it was heat. Maybe cumulative fatigue. Maybe both.
I told myself I’d deal with it in the morning.
For now, I’d made it where I needed to be.
If everything went right, I had a real shot at that 2:10pm bus tomorrow.
I crawled into the tent under a sky still faintly hazed with smoke, the roar of California Falls steady in the background.
One more day.
The canyon wasn’t done yet.
