On August 4th, 2025, my friend and I set out from Eagle Meadows in Emigrant Wilderness, directly North of Yosemite National Park. We had spent the previous night at the trailhead, because we got there too late to start hiking that evening. We slept without a tent and watched the stars, squealing every time we saw one fly across the pitch black sky. In the morning, we were greeted by an unexpected visitor. There was a friendly white cow wandering around. This took us by surprise, but if we had read the name of where we were, “Martins Cow Camp”, it would’ve been expected.
We set out hiking later than we had hoped and had our longest mileage day of the trip ahead of us. Our plan was to get to Meadow Lake and camp there, as we would have access to water. We had made an estimation of mileage according to our paper map, but there’s really no way of truly knowing in the mountains, and with the surprises that lay ahead, we would be walking much more than planned.
Shortly after setting out, it became quite apparent that the cow at the camp was not the only one. We precariously avoided huge cow patties as we hiked. Soon, we came upon a whole herd of cattle. Unlike the one by the car, they were very skittish and stampeded away from us, through the trees and into the bushes. Their size and force were frightening, and I couldn't help but think what would’ve happened if they had run toward us.
The day went on, and our mileage and elevation gain increased. As we followed the footprints on the trail, we added to the layers with our own. At times, it felt like we were walking straight up a wall it was so steep. It seemed that the trail crew had completely disregarded the idea of creating switchbacks and had carved the trail to go straight up.
The views were breathtaking. Quite literally. Our backpacks were the heaviest they’d be, carrying our food for the next few days, and we were hiking at almost 10,000 feet of elevation. Nearing the top of Eagle Pass, we were met with a gate of wildflowers. They grew so tall that they towered above us as we walked through them. Pushing them to the side and untangling them to follow the trail.
After pushing through the flowers and climbing one last stretch, we made it to Eagle Pass. Some celebratory off-brand Swedish fish were shared, and we quickly continued down the steep descent.
The day continued with a similar cycle of steep inclines, beautiful views, snack and water breaks, steep declines, and meadow crossings. Sometimes we talked, and sometimes we were silent. Listening to our footsteps and breath, finding a rhythm with each other and the land we walked on and through. Everything is so quiet in the mountains, it was slightly frightening at times because we are used to such constant stimuli in our regular lives. We talked of light, silly subjects and heavy, deep ones. We laughed, and we cried, our range of emotions reflecting the mountain range. Spending a few days detached brings me clarity, both in myself and how I interact with the world around me. It becomes apparent how much I rely on people and the things I take for granted. When those things are removed, they are amplified.
The hike was going well, and we felt like we were making great progress. My feet were aching, my shoulders and hips felt bruised from the weight of my pack, and my legs felt as if they could give out with one wrong step, but it felt good, and I knew the discomfort of it all would feel rewarding at the end of the hike. We descended into our second-to-last meadow of the day, Hay Meadow. We were hiking in silence, with space between us to attempt to dodge the dust that was being kicked up by our steps. I’ve never hiked through such dusty, soft soil, and it felt dry and caked on my skin. As we hiked throughout the day, we recognized a repetition and story in the footprints on the trail. We could tell when someone new had joined from a branching trail and if they had a dog or kid with them. I had noticed a set that was wearing the same shoes as I was, as our footprints looked almost identical, only a drastic difference in size. For a long while, as we hiked, I had been tracking these footprints. They acted as a reminder that we were on the right path, and it felt like someone was guiding and reassuring us, which felt comforting as we had seen no other trace of humans for hours.
As we descended into Hay Meadow, the footprints vanished. It didn’t feel alarming at first, as the trail we followed was still clear. But only 10 yards or so into the meadow, we stopped in our tracks as we simultaneously spotted a figure. “Holy cow!” I exclaimed, before realizing how fitting my reaction was. We quickly looked at each other to confirm we were both seeing the same thing. In the center of the small meadow, there was a large black cow, overturned, with its legs stiff and protruding into the air. There was a large dead cow, directly in the center of the meadow that we had to cross. We stood there in shock, wondering what had happened. I had never felt the presence of death to the extent I did then. The size of the creature made death feel so much more apparent and close. We hurried along, wishing to get out of the meadow as soon as possible, but also unable to keep our eyes off it. With no footprints shown in the grassy meadow, we followed what we thought was the trail, which only turned out to be a small stream that had carved in the earth what looked like a trail. And it soon disappeared into a grassy marsh. We were forced to backtrack.
We retraced our path to the edge of the meadow, where the dusty dirt showed the footprints we were familiar with. As we passed the cow again, something slithered through the grass, revealing itself as a snake as it stood up, showing its forebody, looking my friend right in the eye, with its mouth open, tongue out. She quickly ran back to me, and the snake retreated into the grass. We continued, stomping as we went, hoping to scare off any other snakes that lurked out of our sight. With both the presence of a large dead cow and a confrontational snake, we were growing more antsy to escape the meadow.
At the edge of the meadow where we were reunited with the familiar footprints. It felt comforting then, but we knew we had to find a way to continue. We looked back over the grassland. There was no resemblance of a trail going up the mountain on the far side of the meadow. It looked like an abrupt vertical incline. There was another possible trail we could see in the grass, veering even closer to the cow. We had no option but to follow it, in the hope it would continue. We cautiously walked by the cow again, trying to keep our eyes off it in both an act of respect but also a sense of fear that if we looked for too long, we would end up in a similar situation. Once again, the trail dissolved into grassland, and we stood in the center of the meadow with no path to follow. An eerie silence surrounded us. The mountains around me felt like they were taller than when we had first hiked in. I found comfort in the thought that we could always retrace the trail we came from, going back to the footprints we knew. We didn’t give up.
As we scanned our surroundings, I saw a slight shadow of a trail in the short grass ahead of us. It was barely distinguishable looking head-on, but from the corner of my eye, I could see a slight impression in the land. It didn’t bring us much promise as it only led us to a muddy patch with dried cow patties. We concluded it was only a cattle trail.
We had been trudging back and forth for at least 30 minutes with no progress. It was after 3 PM, and we hadn’t had much of a lunch, only trail snacks. We sat down to make a plan, feeling defeated and drained. I sat in the dirt, and my friend sat on her backpack. We had the paper map spread out on the ground between us. I held the Garmin InReach Mini and my phone with Google Maps, and she held her phone with a compass. Without any choice, we were forced to rely on what we had available to us. We studied the map, identifying the peaks on it and labeling the ones surrounding us. I found our coordinates listed on the Garmin, and my friend pinpointed them on the map. We even made sure to confirm that North was where we thought.
When we had confirmed that we were indeed in Hay Meadow, we formed a plan. We would walk the entirety of the edge of the meadow until we found where the trail picked up again. With no trail in sight, we blindly trudged towards where we estimated it would be after studying the map. It was hard to tell because it was such a small detail on the 200,000 square miles spread across the creased paper map. Hay Meadow was just a pinhead on the map. It turns out our map study session paid off. We trusted ourselves and pushed through the small shrubs. There was a patch of bushes that grew taller than me, and behind those, a trail cut into the hill. Before we got too excited, we made sure it wasn’t just an animal trail. Sure enough, there were human footprints.
My friend and I had spent at least an hour stuck in Hay Meadow. After climbing the ascent out of the trapping grassland, we collapsed under a tree, feeling completely depleted. We considered pulling out our stove and heating our water to cook a proper meal, but we realized we were almost out. If we used it for food, we wouldn’t have enough to last us till the Lake. Almost every creek and river along the trail was dried up, so we only had what we had been carrying since the morning.
We hiked on in silence. The next and final meadow we walked through, all the river beds were either completely dry or only muddy, swampy water. As we descended into the meadow, two dogs came running from the tree line, directly at us. At first, we were excited to see them, thinking they were playful and friendly, but as the two dogs grew closer, we realized their approach was not friendly at all, and quite territorial. They were aggressively barking and jumping, looking ready to attack. We could hear their owners’ voices yelling after them from the treeline, but not making any other move to retrieve their dogs. I quickened my pace to a very brisk walk, almost jogging, not looking at them in fear I would provoke them further. Keeping my eyes ahead of me and my legs moving quickly, I expected to feel a bite on my ankles from the dogs. Our speed walking worked, and they eventually retreated to their owners about one hundred yards away. Perhaps the tired and hungry state we were in only made us more paranoid that the dogs would cause actual harm and injury. It seemed meadows had it out for us that day.
After almost following the wrong trail out of the meadow, we finally took the turnoff for Meadow Lake. I was walking very slowly, carefully placing my feet over and between the rocky trail. On my previous backpacking trip with Haven, a few years back, I had taken one misstep, fallen directly on my face, and gotten a pretty bad concussion. I was still fearful from that experience.
We arrived at Meadow Lake safely, with only the last rays of sunlight shining over the rock faces across the water. After taking the shoes and socks off our aching feet, we relieved them in the cold water. The dusty trail had found its way through both my shoes and socks, and my feet were caked with dirt. My entire body was sore, and it felt like we had been hiking for days. It was shocking that morning was a part of the same day we were living now. I hobbled back and forth from my backpack and the lake, filtering water and preparing our ramen. We ate quickly and in almost complete silence, with the occasional sigh, tired complaint, or reflection from our eventful day.
Just as I had predicted earlier in the day, the discomfort of the hike made this moment feel infinitely more rewarding. My footprints were layered with the ones that came before, and would soon be erased from the dust.