Readers: Here is the fourth and final installment of my experience of being stranded in a blizzard in Yosemite National Park in California in November of 1973. Last weekís article ended with me finding trail signs that told me May Lake was 3.7 miles away.

I followed trail markers blazed on trees for two hours, then set up camp as dusk approached. It was the happiest night in 17 days. Before I had been only hopeful; now I began to gain a wary confidence. I had enough food for 10 more days; still, the 13 miles to Yosemite Valley would take a long time to walk with the progress I had been making.

Yet I knew that once I found May Lake I would find Snow Creek, which would eventually take me to Yosemite Valley. ìIf this good weather holds out, Iíll be in the valley in three to four days,î I wrote in my journal Wednesday morning. ìThank God. I kept faith when there didnít seem to be much hope. Iíve got a lot of promises to keep to the Lord now, and I plan on doing it.î

Some of my promises were concise, like not smoking, stealing, lying or eating meat. Others were closer to convictions than promises. I vowed never to take anyone or anything for granted again. During the previous two weeks I had thought much about people I knew and loved, almost to the point of being unrealistic, as we do when dear friends have died. We tend to overpraise their good traits, forget the bad and wish to God we had another chance to meet again, just to say, ìI love you.î It seemed I would be getting that second chance.

Although I lost the trail 10 minutes after I started out Wednesday morning, I wasnít worried or upset. The descending valley had to pass May Lake, and Iíd be sure to see it.

Skirting the forestís edge, I happily discovered a hard crust on the snow along the perimeter of the valley. I stayed on it most of the day, making what I thought was good time and expecting to see May Lake around every corner. I even made up a song entitled ìJust Around the Corner,î which I sang while I walked and marveled at the pristine, snow-covered valley and mountains.

But as the sun dipped behind the mountains, I still hadnít come to May Lake. I was positive I couldnít have missed it; it had to lie close ahead. I pitched camp, confident that I would find it early the next day.

Ominous gray clouds were filling the sky when I packed up and started hiking Thursday morning. A storm was heading my way. Half an hour later, my song came true. As I rounded one last corner, the most beautiful and anticipated object of 10 days of sweat, tumbles, blisters and tears ñ May Lake ñ stretched away to the south, a quarter-mile of ice and open water. From my high vantage point, I could see several drainage streams merging at the end of the lake into a wide pine forest that converged on Snow Creek. The creek wound southward to Yosemite Valley. There lay my final haul. Ten more miles.

Feeling more drained than usual, with stops every 10 steps, I found Snow Creek and alongside it a wide alpine meadow. Slowly, methodically, I trudged through the meadowís knee-deep snow, eyes downcast. Gray clouds were moving swiftly toward me from the south. ìTheyíre hurrying to make life a little harder,íí I thought. ìTen miles, another blizzard and a week of food. Whoís going to win?î

A movement ahead snapped me out of my reflections. For one or two seconds, nothing registered. Then, for the first time in 26 days, I recognized a human being.

I didnít scream crazily at the cross-country skier. I yelled loudly yet calmly, and at my same pace slowly made it to where the man stood watching me. A ìSpeed Limit, 40î sign just to his left told me I had finally found the closed Tioga Road.

ìIíve been stuck in the mountains for three weeks,î I said. ìI need some help.î

ìYouíve been out there, like that, for three weeks?î he asked, scrutinizing my snowshoe-less feet and sock-covered hands. He couldnít believe his eyes. Nor could 1. In an instant all had changed, and I was in touch with humanity and civilization again. Chuck Cochran handed me a fresh orange, and I realized my ordeal was ending.

A summer Search and Rescue employee of Yosemite, Chuck was skiing to Tuolumne Meadows to visit two young ranger friends. With the aid of Tom and Carolyn, two more friends who were skiing an hour behind him, we made it to a bathroom at the east end of Tanaya Lake by mid-afternoon. While Chuck and Tom went on to the ranger station to radio park headquarters in Yosemite Valley, Carolyn heated freeze-dried food and hot jello for me on their white-gas stove. Later that afternoon Tom and one ranger returned and checked my hands and feet for frostbite, thinking I might be an emergency case.

The ranger whistled when he saw the blisters on my heels. I couldnít feel anything in my feet, but the blisters, black and the size of half-dollars, were ugly enough to make me wince. Yet no sign of frostbite showed on my toes, and there was only a touch of black on the tips of four fingers.

The next morning a helicopter flew in to pick me up, and I waved goodbye to my rescuers. Ten minutes later I stepped onto a grassy field in Yosemite Valley. What a contrast! Twenty days of deep snow, then 10 minutes later, bare ground all around!

A gruff, gray-haired ranger drove me to Lewis Memorial Hospital. Looking angry, he said nothing until we arrived there. Then, as nurses started fussing over my blisters and skinny body, he told me what I already knew, that I was a very lucky young man.

ìEvery spring we haul three or four people just like you out of the mountains.î He didnít have to go much further. He could see Iíd learned the lesson the hard way.

My body temperature had dropped two degrees, and at 145 pounds, my six-foot frame was 40 pounds lighter than a month before.

Amazingly, there were no lasting injuries. I was all right except for the painful blisters.

Iíll take the blame for being foolish enough to get into the predicament. Iíll take some credit too, for keeping a clear, level head that enabled me to make the right decisions.

For the rest, I thank some other force, one which some call fortune and others call God.

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