Sequoia National Park - Moro Rock

Despite my visits to so many other National Parks, and despite having recently made my sixth visit into Yosemite National Park, I had so far failed to visit another one that was right in the neighbourhood. The combined Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks are within comfortable daytripping distance of Fresno, yet I had not been there and, in October, parts of the park were about to close for the winter. This could be my last opportunity to visit America's second oldest National Park. I would be a fool not to take it.

This left me in a bit of a bind because, under the circumstances, I would also be a fool to take it. It was raining and freezing cold, with snow already on the ground in several tourist destinations within the park. I was also sick. I'd caught some kind of stomach bug and spent the past three days with my head down the toilet. Not ideal sightseeing circumstances. Nevertheless, I am nothing if not intrepid and so I not only resolved to visit the park, but persuaded Marcus to come along with me.

As we drove through the rain we tried to think positive. Perhaps the sky would clear later in the day. Perhaps this mist we were driving through would dissipate and we would get to see some of the amazing vistas that the park's promo materials promised.

One of the most splendid views in the park is alleged to be from Moro Rock, a granite dome with a stairway leading all the way to the top and an amazing lookout. Let me quote you directly from the park information:

"From atop Moro Rock you can grasp the multiple superlatives that brought Sequoia - and eventually Kings Canyon - into the National Park System so early that Sequoia is now our second oldest national park. To the north lies the Giant Forest plateau where sequoias rise above their forest neighbours. To the west, in contrast to these gargantuan conifers, are the dry foothills with their oak trees and chaparral vegetation descending toward the San Joaquin Valley. To the south, and down, more than 5,000 vertical feet, the Middle Fork of the Kaweah River threads its rugged canyon. To the east, snowcapped peaks of the Great Western Divide and the Kaweah Peaks top out on Mount Kaweah at 13,802 feet."

Sounds awesome, doesn't it? We simply had to try for that. We arrived to discover that the road leading to the base of the Moro Rock lookout was closed. If we wanted to see it, we would have to hike a few extra miles each way to get to the start of the trail. Although cold, it wasn't actually raining at the time and although I was weak from sickness, dehydration and involuntary fasting, I figured I still had several miles of walking left in me. For the chance of those views, it would surely be worth it. So we picked up our ponchos and set out for the rock.

The hike to the base of the trail turned out to be the highlight of the day. The trees gave some protection from the chill and blocked out the icy wind altogether. The forest seemed hushed as we walked quietly over the soft, wet, fallen foliage. Our breath misted in still air so cool and clear that it burned our nostrils. As the trail climbed we passed into a wonderland, where mist glowed through tall trees and a family of deer moved silently through the shadows. Transfixed, I didn't even reach for my camera until the deer had passed. I hope this is indicative of a growing trend to "miss" any more deer that cross my path.

It was the kind of moment that moves human beings to strange ecstasies. In such places people may find God, or lose Him, they may have epiphanies that change the course of their lives forever, they may forgive the hurts they have harboured, make solemn vows or propose marriage to a loved one. We paused, entranced, expectant, breathing sacred air, while none of those things happened to us. Then we moved on.

The view from the bottom of the Moro Rock trail was not encouraging and by this stage the magically reviving effects of the misty forest had passed and I was feeling pretty bad. However, we had met another hiker coming down from the trail who assured us that there were partial views from the top. This was my last chance, after all, and I'd already come this far. So up we went.

And up.

I paused for a moment to will the meagre contents of my stomach to remain there.

And up.

We stopped to awkwardly put on our ponchos with frozen fingers because we were now hiking in a steady, gentle sleet and whipping wind.

And up.

I paused again and fought back the urge to vomit over the railing, partly because I really needed to absorb the water I'd been sipping, but mainly because I was afraid it might hit another hiker. I tried to distract myself by shaking the ice off my poncho and succeeded only in letting more cold air under the PVC.

And up.

And then ...

This is what we saw. The National Park had helpfully installed interpretive signs so that we would know exactly what we weren't seeing.

Visibility was so low that we could hardly make out the path behind us, let along the panorama laid out before us.

Disappointed, and with me now feeling utterly ghastly, we started the long trudge back down to the car.