Yosemite Hunger

We were hungry. We lived for Yosemite summers, meeting our first year as employees of the concessionaire and then graduating to being full-time dirt bags. Our diet consisted of polished cracks and huge granite formations. When we collected enough food from the dented can store, we’d go climb a wall. Until then, we spent our little bits of time away from the cliff hoarding scraps of food and swooping on the free meals that the local church made; anything to keep our emaciated bodies climbing.

Max’s thin frame appeared jaundiced. He was living off a hundred dollars a month; seventy of it went to Bali Shag rolling tobacco. Max could pinch a penny so tight boogers would escape Lincoln’s nose. Neither Will nor I had Max’s hefty bankroll. Will had emptied the lint from his pockets to buy a portaledge and my money had been blown on new rock shoes earlier in the summer. When Max suggested a new avenue to fuel our adventures we listened hungrily.

Trader Joe’s, a chain of grocery stores dotting the left coast, carries an assortment of fresh produce. At the end of every evening a crater-faced teenager will toss any expired food into an unlocked dumpster by the loading docks. The dumpster becomes a king’s banquet of organic juices, turkey-pesto sandwiches, and halibut filets. The nearest Trader Joe’s was located three hours from Yosemite in Fresno. We commandeered a doubloon gold Impala and headed to the store as fast as the winding road would take us. The Chinquapin mountains, with its enormous sequioas and steep hills, couldn’t pass quickly enough.

The Impala made its way towards the urban sprawl of Fresno, a city that Rand McNally should have forgotten, zigzagging through the labyrinth of streets. Parking in an empty bank lot across from the low level chain mall of Trader Joe’s, we began our stake-out. A single guard waddled around the structure stopping in front of the Trader Joe’s dumpster to wiggle his mustache. By his tenth five minute round he’d taken to staring across the street at the Impala, inspecting its contents of dirty monkeys as though he were attempting to solve a one-piece puzzle. He’d clop his feet twice, shake his Rogaine slathered lip hair, and keep walking. At midnight, our patience was rewarded and an employee hucked three bins full of food into the dumpster, leaving the empty bins nearby. After the guard made another round, the Impala darted into the loading dock, and we swooped.

Max hopped out of the back seat and pole vaulted into the dumpster with Olympic grace. Linguini and bell peppers flew in parabolic arcs at my face as Will and I scurried to load the food into the bins. We heaved the supplies into the car. The overweight shuffle of the guard’s boots came around the corner and I banged on the dumpster. Max dove into the Impala, a portabella mushroom still hung doggedly from the nape of his neck as he sat up. Will smashed himself behind the driver’s seat, launching us into the Fresno streets.

The drive back was filled with dreams of fat meals and fatter bodies. “No more cigarettes for breakfast and no more sleeping starving.” I gave Will a pirate’s toothy grin. “Fresno? Fres-yes!” Will punched the gas, accelerating back to the ditch. We had enough food to climb Washington’s Column, enough for Half-Dome. We could siege El-Cap if we wanted. Max pinballed between the bins of booty as we snaked back down the curving roads into the Yosemite Valley floor.

The Impala pulled into the apple orchard below Half Domeand we fell out. Max ran into the trees as Will and I sorted the food. We discarded anything with hair or that looked green, or that smelled funkier than we did. By the time we reached the end of the bins, we discovered there was no caviar or even a salmon filet. We had a single package of spaghetti and a car sick Max.

That night we hiked into the talus above Camp 4 to sleep. The next day meant climbing; full bellies or not, we were always hungry. I tossed on my crashpad, unable to catch a wink until finally my stomach growled me to sleep. At least my day was fully satiated.