We hadn't even reached the entrance of the park and were already spellbound by the panoramas unfolding before us.
Emerging from the rugged, red-rock desert terrain and rolling hills of Reno, we soon found ourselves immersed in a landscape dominated by towering cliffs, pristine lakes, dramatic precipices, and meadows straight out of a storybook.
The plan was deceptively modest: tackle the final stretch to Yosemite Falls, revel in the view, and retreat back in time for early dinner. But Yosemite, as ever, had something deeper in store.
The Staircase of Hell
We called that final ascent to the top of the falls the Staircase of Hell—a name born of sweat and laughter. It wasn’t a local legend, just our own descriptor for what felt like endless stone switchbacks, each step a granulated testament to altitude gain. Beneath our boots, the path crumbled into dusty grit, like someone had ground up the mountain and spread it stair-style. Every turn up that relentless ribbon of stone opened another new vista: the valley below, Sierra silhouettes beyond, a hawk arching through sapphire air.
At the lip of Yosemite Falls, the world dropped away. The valley looked stitched together from light—meadows, rivers, roads all turned to threads. We refilled our bottles from the icy creek (we had LifeStraws and every intention of using them correctly) and sat with our boots off, toes tingling, feeling that particular mixture of triumph and humility the Sierra is so good at brewing. The closer we came to the brink, the more the falls made their own weather: a fine spray, like a whispered dare.
We drew water from the nearby river and filled our bottles, secure in the assumption that our LifeStraws would transform that pure Sierra flow into safe hydration for what came next.
“What if we just… kept going?”
It was said like a joke at first. A gesture at the trail marker. El Capitan lay out there in the high country, its summit reachable by a spine of forested trail that slipped away from the falls and rolled across granite like a dare. “It’s only, what—four miles out?” we guessed. “Four back?” Shrug. The light was still high. Our legs felt—if not fresh—then at least optimistic.
We went.
The crowds vanished the moment we left the falls. The trail softened underfoot, pine needles trading places with stone. Sunlight filtered through fir and cedar. Every few minutes the trees would part and there it was: El Capitan, the monolith, rising like the prow of the world. Continuing felt like abandoning common sense in favor of curiosity, a trade we’ve willingly made before.
We reached the summit toward the first signs of evening, stillness settling over the granite like a blanket. Far below, the valley glimmered. The wind carried the tiniest rumor of voices, a car horn, then nothing. We took the requisite photos, the goofy ones and the quiet ones, and we promised each other we’d remember how small we felt and how lucky. We called our families from that lofty perch—voices crackling through cell bars high above the valley floor.
The Plot Twist
Empowered by the panoramic high, we began our return, humming with triumph and tired thighs. But when we tried to use our LifeStraws on that refilled water? Nothing. No draw, no suction. Just silence and the shudder of realization that filtered water wasn’t going to happen now. We tried again and again, working to unclog filters, coaxed, pleaded. The sun tilted lower.
There’s a moment in every adventure when “we’ve got this” drifts into “okay, how do we get out of this?” With no remaining clean supply, we began sipping on straight river water and started descending.
The trail back to the falls felt a notch longer and steeper than before, as if the mountain had grown while we were away.
Down by Starlight
We made the Yosemite Falls overlook at the edge of sunset, the sky inflamed with sherbet stripes. Smart hikers having descended much earlier in the day, it was quiet, the kind that rings in your ears.
The Staircase of Hell in reverse is a different animal. Gravity wants you to succeed, but your knees disagree. We took our time, counting off the turns, calling out the landmarks we’d memorized on the way up. A breeze came up-valley, carrying that cool meadow smell. Somewhere a night bird chirpped.
Of course, not planning for night hiking, we didn't bring headlamps. One phone was already dead. Our final stretch through the forest was lit by a single phone flashlight, its narrow beam bouncing off granite and pine trunks. We walked close together, focused on avoid a trip downhill.
To keep the bears away—and to keep our nerves steady—we sang. Camp songs, nonsense songs, half-remembered choruses, improvised verses about switchbacks and sore knees. The trail became a rhythm: crunch, step, laugh. Every now and then we’d stop, let our lights go dark, and look up. The first stars were just beginning to come out, keen and clear. We were, for all we knew, the only ones up there.
Back to Earth
We stepped off the last switchback and into the parking lot around 9 p.m., dusty, thirsty, and full of that brand of joy that only arrives after you ignore one reasonable plan and improvise a better story. The valley lights glowed. We tore into snacks like feral raccoons and clinked bottle caps to a day that had expanded well beyond what we’d intended. We sat—legs too tired to move, hearts too full to stop smiling.
The mileage edged past 18.1, including our spur to Eagle Point and those extra El Cap miles. Two summits. Two non-functioning water filters. A sunset we’ll describe forever and a soundtrack no one else will ever hear. Yosemite demanded more than we planned and gave back more than we asked.
Would I recommend adding El Capitan to a Yosemite Falls day hike on a whim? Probably not. But as a memory? Absolutely. Sometimes the best itinerary is the one you write with your feet, your friends, and flashlight-lit lyrics.