Readers: Here is the third installment of my experience of being stranded in a blizzard in Yosemite National Park in California in November of 1973. The conclusion will appear next week.

During the week from Monday, November 19, to Sunday, November 25, I hiked south, using a compass and common sense as guides. My hypothesis that the valley creek would cut a natural pass through the mountains to the south proved to be correct. Except for two days when I rested, I followed the creek south, passing through dense conifer forest.

The hiking was slow and treacherous. Not only did my progressing weakness force me to take four or five breaths with each step, I had to avoid streams, rocks and trees obscured beneath the snow. At first the streams were nearly impossible to spot ahead of time; Iíd suddenly sink up to my crotch and feel my boots fill with icy water. After this had happened twice, I began to recognize warning signs ñ a barely perceptible crease in the snow, a soft swish of flowing water.

I also improved at detecting boulders and young pines by the slight mounds they made in the snow. Sometimes, however, they were unavoidable. Iíd step gingerly on a half-inch mound only to go crashing down on a buried tree that had formed an air pocket under the snow.

I learned a few other important tactics by experience, such as erecting my tent in a position for the morning sun to warm it quickly and thaw out my boots early enough for me to get in a full dayís hiking. I learned to wear wool socks on both hands and feet while hiking; only wool kept them warm, even when wet, and saved them from frostbite. I learned to wrap my two-quart aluminum canteen in spare clothes at night, preventing it from becoming a two-quart ice cube by morning.

And I learned how to withstand intense pain. Both heels developed blisters the size of a quarter from the unnatural motion of walking in deep snow. At night when I was drying and thawing my cold, clammy feet, my heels would ache for 15 minutes, badly enough to bring tears. It became a ritual to sing Christmas carols or play my harmonica at this time to take my mind off the stabbing pain.

I had my share of frightening and frustrating experiences. On the first day, just 150 yards below my campsite, I came to a sheer 15-foot drop-off. The only way off the ridge was down the smooth, almost 90-degree face of a huge boulder. I sat down and gingerly pushed myself feet-first toward the snow below. Not reckoning the influence my pack would have, I belly-flopped, miring myself up to the waist. My glasses were gone, but no bones were broken. I quickly scanned the snow, sighing in relief when I spotted my wire-rimmed glasses lying a few feet away. With my 20-200 vision, lost glasses would have been disastrous.

Weighed down by the pack, I discovered I could not walk through the deep snow at the foot of the slope. So I slipped off the pack, unrolled my Ensolite sleeping pad, cut four holes in it and lashed my pack onto it. The makeshift sled pulled with ease, enabling me to wade through a half-mile of snow before the drifts lessened and I could resume hiking normally.

The most frustrating experience occurred late Friday afternoon. After spending all day hiking up a steep incline paralleling the creek, I was able to look to the south and east, in the direction of Yosemite Valley. The sight was discouraging ñ waves of mountains lay across the horizon as far as I could see. As I stood on the ridge, weary and depressed, a low droning sound gradually drifted nearer. I looked up eagerly and spotted a speck in the distance. A small plane was heading directly for me, flying low. I pulled out my mirror and frantically tried to flash to the plane in the dimming light. I waved my arms and yelled,

ìHey Iím here, Iím here! Stop, please stop!î But the plane kept going.

By Sunday the creek had dwindled to almost nothing, an important sign that I was nearing the summit of the gradual rise Iíd been climbing for three days. After one last knoll, I found myself on an expansive, open ridge which offered a good view to both the southeast and southwest. Jagged peaks were everywhere. To the southwest, however, a pine forest sliced between the mountains. If there was any way through the mountains to Tioga Road and May Lake, it was via that forest. But three days of steady drift-wading on my starvation diet had drained me physically. I pitched camp and rested the remainder of Sunday and all day Monday, trying to decide what to do.

ìNow is the big debate, and my life hinges on my decision,î I wrote in the journal. ìDo I push south and hope I hit Tioga Road and not another mountain range; or do I pitch camp here, where it is open, and pray Iím rescued before I starve? Iím tempted to push on, but Iím getting weaker. I might last for two weeks if I stay put, keep warm and eat a bare essential every day. If I push on into the valley, I might become even more lost and exhausted, and theyíd never spot me in that forest. I donít know whatís beyond it. Maybe May Lake and Tioga Road. Maybe not.î

Tuesday, acting on the impulse of clear, snow-melting weather, I decided to push on. It was the toughest hiking Iíd encountered in eight days. Dense pines dropped clumps of melting snow on me; dead logs, boulders and my arch-enemies, hidden streams, were constant obstacles. Yet despite them, I was in good spirits. I repeated the Lordís Prayer, saying one word with each step. Iíd had uncanny good fortune, both physically and with the weather. There had been no severe storms for 17 days, and now the temperature was above freezing.

But I hardly expected the beautiful sight I beheld in a clearing that afternoon. Jutting from the snow were two rusty punch-letter trail signs. I knelt in silent thanks as I read, ìMay Lakeñ3.7 miles, Yosemite Valleyñ14.5 miles.î It seemed as if God had heard my prayers, and answered them.

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