Readers: Here is the second installment of my experience of being stranded in a blizzard in Yosemite National Park in California in November of 1973. Part three of the four parts will appear next week.

I had no reason to be optimistic about search planes ever finding me. Because of my inexperience I had not checked in with Yosemite Park headquarters, had not obtained a wilderness permit and had not told any ranger about my trip. No one except my mother knew where I was.

Nevertheless, I hoped for rescue. ìLet me say what I hope and pray happens, and what is really my only chance for rescue,î I wrote in my journal. ìMom gets worried after she doesnít hear from me by Thanksgiving (two weeks away). She calls up park headquarters and asks whether they have any information. Perhaps theyíll have found the food and clothes that I left in storage locker 41, and sheíll verify that theyíre mine, which will indicate that Iím still in Yosemite somewhere. Maybe theyíll check the past weather records and recall the big storm of November 10, and theyíll assume that Iím either dead or snowbound. Either way theyíll send out search parties, most likely by small plane, and scour the area. With a signal fire or an SOS in the snow, they should find me. So Iíve got to hang on for a long month.î

Underneath this, I added a post- script: ìOf course, I doubt things will go exactly like that. The rangers might not discover the locker, in which case they wonít even be sure Iím in the park and might not search at all.î

I did my best during the next week to prepare for search planes. After a pair of denims and a shirt had dried on Tuesday, I broke off all the dry dead wood I could reach from the trees and put it in my backpack on a rise 20 yards away, along with some white gas fuel. Beside this I piled some large dead boughs wrapped in my tarp. If any search planes did come, Iíd be ready with a quick signal fire. I also kept a small mirror handy to signal planes.

Monday and Tuesday were both sunny with a slight breeze. By Tuesday evening, after two days on a makeshift clothesline, all my clothes and, more importantly, the sleeping bag, had dried. And I made the important discovery of a creek, about 75 yards away. I had crossed the foot-wide stream flowing off Tuolumne Peak on Saturday. On

Tuesday I waded back through thigh-deep drifts to look for it. There was hardly a trace in the deep smooth snow, merely a single hole about three feet across, but I could hear the beautiful sound of gurgling water.

After three days of eating snow, the sweet, icy liquid couldnít have tasted better. From then on I had a full canteen.

Knowing any rescue would probably be at least a month away, I began rationing my two-week food supply.

The inventory, as I recorded it in my journal, consisted of: one-half bag (pint size) brown sugar, one-half bag Malt-OíMeal, one-half bag instant rice, one-half bag instant potatoes, one-third bag granola, 12 servings pancake mix. one serving instant eggs, one quart instant milk, two instant breakfasts, three one-cup cocoa mixes, three packets Lipton Instant Soup, four packets Lipton Cup-a-Soup, three packets chili seasoning mix, one-half packet Spanish rice seasoning mix, three ounces cooking oil, one packet freeze-dried chicken and rice, one-half Gerry tube of peanut butter and jelly and seven tea bags.

I began limiting myself to one two-course meal daily. For the main course, I had half a bowl of mixed granola, rice, instant cereal, instant potatoes pancake batter, cooking oil and dried soup mixed with water.

Along with this paste I ate ìsnow saladîñ brown sugar and snow. I was constantly, ravenously hungry, but the prospect of running out of food before getting rescued reinforced my will power.

The worst hardship I encountered the first week, though, was loneliness. I reread Thoreauís Walden, then finished Mark Twainís Huckleberry Finn in two days. Waldenís reverence for nature and simplicity seemed to befit my predicament. I wrote daily accounts of my thoughts and plight in my journal; played my harmonica; sang Christmas carols.

But most of all, I reflected on my past. I began to realize the value of life and how much I had taken for granted. A Wednesday, November 15, entry in my journal reads: ìAll I really want is to get back home, back to school, to see my friends and loved ones again, to live out my life. If I could only see everyone again; Iíd be more aware and loving, more appreciative.î

For the first time ever, I began believing in Christ. Maybe it was only ìpocket Providence,î pulled out under the stress of silence and thoughts of death. But at the time it was sincere. It grew into a faith that kept me going when I thought I lacked the physical strength to continue.

Hopes grow dim

As my mind cleared during the week, my hopes for rescue grew dimmer. By Thursday evening I was in a mental dilemma. I wouldnít admit that my chance of rescue was almost nonexistent, for I needed that hope to keep my spirits up. It had spurred me through the first four days, sustaining my will to live. But on Thursday evening it received a deathblow. As I lay looking at a park brochure and map, I read, ìThis is Yosemite National Park, a 1189-square-mile scenic wonderland of sculptured peaks and domes. . .î With that much territory to cover and not knowing where to begin looking, the National Park Service would never find me, even with a signal fire.

I pinpointed my location on the sketchy map, just north of Tuolumne Peak, and then it occurred to me that I might be able to walk out on my own. To the east and stretching north-south was a large valley with a creek. Even though the creek flowed north into the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne River, I figured it had to cut a natural pass through the mountains to the south and might even intercept May Lake and Tioga Road, which were seven miles due south of Tuolumne Peak and my campsite.

I had seen the valley every day, a wide one with a dense pine forest and small mountains sprinkled throughout. No longer content with waiting, and with the snow more compact, I planned my escape for the first weather-permitting day.

Friday and Saturday brought another storm, though nothing like the blizzard a week earlier. Sunday held hurricane-like winds. When Monday dawned clear, windless and warm, I packed my gear and started toward the valley. I was exchanging security for the unknown. Although frightened, I felt strength and pride for assuming the burden of my rescue. It was no longer up to my family or the rangers; it was up to me and the grace of God to make it back alive.

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