Read an Excerpt

Preface

The Wonder of Yosemite Wildlife

One day in the Gaylor Lakes Basin, during a late spring in 2017 when snow still covered the entire landscape in June, I sat high above a mostly frozen Gaylor Lake and listened to the creaks and groans the ice made as it started to shift and melt, begrudgingly yielding dominance to the sun’s renewed warmth of the season. This basin, a sublime high—mountain area in Yosemite near Tioga Pass, affords some of the most breathtaking views in the park. Once free of ice, the lake becomes one of the world’s most beautiful infinity pools; with the backdrop of the Cathedral Range, peaks like Unicorn, Cathedral, and Hoffmann seemingly emerge from the surface of its cerulean waters. Many of the remarkable wildlife I study, such as pikas, Yosemite toads, and Sierra sulphur butterflies—hardy and fascinating high—mountain dwellers—also call this basin home.

While I sat watching the pikas dashing back and forth across the rocks and loudly belting out their cheerful meep meep calls, all of us enjoying the first signs of spring, a bald eagle abruptly soared into the scene, silently flying overhead, he too scanning for pikas and other small mammals. I was torn between admiration at such an incredible sighting (bald eagles are not common in Yosemite) and anxiety for the pikas at risk of becoming a meal (a bald eagle needs to eat, I just prefer it happen not on my watch). Soon after, several mountain bluebirds, avian manifestations of the sky, landed on a nearby tree, their feathers a dazzling deep blue against the snowy landscape. As I listened to the tew tew calls signaling their arrival to nest and raise young in their seasonal homes, I spotted an animal moving at the far end of the lake. I gazed in amazement as a coyote trotted across the wide expanse of ice, dwarfed by the whiteness surrounding him, a lone traveler also likely celebrating the end of winter. At this point, I already thought I had hit the wildlife viewing jackpot, yet Yosemite had one more gift to offer.

About thirty minutes later, another animal appeared on the distant shore of the lake, and I at first assumed the coyote had returned. As the creature came closer, I realized quickly, “That’s no coyote!” but a black bear crossing the ice. He moved with a purposeful gait, slowing to sniff the air at times, perhaps still recovering from his long winter sleep. Once he started heading directly toward me, I felt it was best to yield my prime pika—viewing seat to him (as Theodore Roosevelt once commented, “My own experience with bears tends to make me lay special emphasis upon their variation in temper”), and I respectfully moved up the ridge.

That day reverberates in memory as if it were something I had experienced by traveling back in time—leaving the modern world to experience nature and wildness as it had existed over millennia. There I sat, on “pika hill,” in the quiet of a wintry landscape, a direct witness to a primeval, sacred moment of being immersed in wild wonder, and I savored it, knowing that so private and intimate a glimpse of wild creatures is rare, and that this glimpse into a living diorama of the past is perhaps possible only in a protected place like Yosemite. “Stuff your eyes with wonder,” advised the great writer Ray Bradbury, and I have adopted that creed, especially when it comes to the natural world.

Yosemite Claimed Me

Since I was a little girl, something about the idea of a national park has always captured my imagination. I still have a book I bought in middle school, National Parks of the USA, and within its pages remains the yellowed—lined paper on which I had made a handwritten list of parks I wanted to visit, inspired by reading the book. I would tell myself, “Someday, someday . . .” and eventually that dream came true. I have lived and worked in two of the biggest national parks—Yosemite and Yellowstone—and have visited many other parks across the country. Filmmaker Ken Burns subtitled his 2009 documentary on national parks “America’s Best Idea,” and I agree it’s one of our nation’s best creations, built on the notion that we hold our immense wild heritage in public trust, accessible to all, for present and future generations, extending the democratic ideal to the natural world.

Of all the national parks I have visited, however, “Yosemite claimed me,” if I may borrow a quote from actor and environmentalist Robert Redford. I first stepped foot in the park at age twenty—two, after moving to California from Massachusetts in 1991. A snowstorm had closed the roads to Yosemite to all but four—wheel—drive vehicles, and I had Yosemite Valley almost to myself. While snowflakes continued to fall, I erected a snowman in El Captain meadow with stick arms and pinecone eyes and nose. A coyote ambled by, then paused to watch my progress. I fell back in the snow and made snow angels while gazing up at the tremendous presence of El Capitan, thinking I had never seen anything so rapturously beautiful in my entire life. From that day forward, Yosemite became my north star. I have made my home for over twenty—five years near its southwest entrance and spend every spare moment wandering in its embrace. Even after visiting the park for almost four decades, I still remain in awe of Yosemite’s immeasurable resplendence and grace.

Yosemite’s landscape had me at hello, yet as I discovered the remarkable wildlife that call the park home, my love affair deepened. Whether watching pikas scrambling over the rocks near Tioga Pass, peregrine falcons soaring over Yosemite Valley, Sierra newts marching to their breeding ponds along the Merced River, or Douglas squirrels tossing cones from the tops of giant sequoia trees, the wildlife in the park are the real story behind the famous scenery. And surprisingly, theirs is a story that has not been told fully for a hundred years. For although published works about Yosemite abound, a book solely focused on the wildlife of Yosemite has not been written since Joseph Grinnell and Tracy Irwin Storer published their landmark work, Animal Life in the Yosemite, in 1924 (see sidebar). My mission for most of my adult life has been to correct this oversight, and I thank the folks at Yosemite Conservancy and photographer Robb Hirsch for enthusiastically joining me in this mission. Countless books have been written about the iconic scenery, yet Half Dome, as beautiful as it is to look at and as geologically significant as it is, should also be viewed as someone’s home.

Some Animal Friends You May Make in Yosemite

One of my most important goals in writing this book was to capture the spirit of these marvelous animals who call the park home, as I align with the nature writer Mary Austin in thinking, “The best thing we get out of any study of animal life is the feel of it.” I also wanted to convey their compelling and enduring stories, for, as my friend the artist, author, and eco—philosopher Obi Kaufmann reminds us, “Not all storytellers are human. Not even close.”

These are living, breathing stories about living, breathing wildlife, and this text, and even the talented Robb Hirsch’s soulful photos of these animals, cannot fully do them justice any more than you can get a complete sense of the utter magnificence and power of El Capitan or Yosemite Falls from a book alone. In a 1925 article titled “Some Animal Friends You May Make in Yosemite,” published in the Yosemite Nature Notes series, the naturalist C. P. Russell wrote, “I invite you to come to Yosemite National Park and learn of them first hand.” I also invite you to do the same. The next time you visit the park, I hope you will meet many new animal friends—that you will hear the cheerful call of the pika, witness a swallowtail butterfly soar over a 12,000—foot peak, or watch a bear stroll contentedly through a meadow—and that you will revel in the wonderment and magic of Yosemite’s wildlife as I have done for a lifetime.

Beth Pratt

Midpines, California, 2024