This is part of a personal series on food memories. Read #1 here. I originally took these images on behalf of my dear friend narinda heng (pictured above), who at the time was writing a piece for Patagonia.

Yosemite is one of my favorite places in the world, if not my absolute favorite. I’m not alone in this sentiment, of course, it’s an incredibly stunning place, if not being all to itself. There were many years in my early 20s that I spent significant time camping, leading outdoor trips, and simply hanging out there that I got to know the lands of the Ahwahnechee (Southern Sierra Miwok) intimately. I can imagine so much of Yosemite in my mind in an instant: the ups and downs of many of the granite-stepped hikes, the insides of the hospital rooms (ouch), the different campgrounds and even their bathrooms (gender chaos!).

I’d go during the Disneyland-esque rush of the summer; I’d go during the frozen, solitary chills of winter; I’d go when I realized I had enough time to take the 3.5 hours from the Bay and head on over.

The last time I went was memorable for a few reasons. My friend – and super strong climber and brilliant writer! – narinda, invited me to join her and another super dope writer and climber, endria, to travel to Yosemite on public transit. Sure, as experienced outdoor bbs each of us had been to Yosemite before, but this trip hit different. From Oakland we rode on Amtrak, then hitched a bus, and eventually trekked from the bus stop to the campground, carrying all of our gear and equipment. We were stocked. This was the first time any of us had gone to Yosemite without the safety of our own private vehicle, and it made for a significant five days of an experience as queer folks of color. We packed along some neatly designed camp food yummies courtesy of Patagonia, but to be honest I didn’t pack enough for myself to eat. I ended up eating at the Yosemite restaurant more times than I’d have liked for that week, but in the end it didn’t matter much.

It was May, it was warm and not too buggy out, and we felt like kids at a summer camp. I remember narinda suddenly diving into the river; I remember aptly coming across a short sci-fi story titled The Mountain while the crew climbed in front of me; I remember missing my pup who at the time was only maybe eight months of age.

As it goes, I actually…wasn’t climbing at the time of the trip. The previous year I’d broken my clavicle riding the wrong bike on washed out trails, and ~after the pandemic, I thought I’d given up climbing for GOOD. Classic climber. If you’ve spent some time on this website at all, you mighta noticed that I am indeed climbing again (and often and slowly harder and harder) but it took me some time to come back to it. I was also in the throes of gender transitioning and identity at the time in 2022, and my body now moves so much differently in sport and in real life than it did then. But that’s for another post I’d eventually like to write.

There are many joys to eating outside (daydreams for a moment) but there's one particular facet that stands out to me – whether it’s backpacking, or on the side of a trail, or at the edge of a cliff, or in the middle of nowhere – and it’s the intimacy.

The setting makes for an intimate backdrop, surely, but also the quiet solitude of the moment makes space for bonding with those present with you.

Though eating can be an intimate act doesn't always mean that it is. We all eat unceremoniously all the time. And that’s okay. Yet, with camping, we more than often do get the chance to slow, to sit in silence, or in a different silence, with oft-unused movements, and eat with a bit more intention. Maybe we make a fire. Maybe we set up a makeshift stove and gas, we pull out old, hazardly burnt pots. We consider the creatures around us and their habits before and after the rituals of cooking. It’s one of the most pleasant, though also potentially stressful, admittedly, experiences for me when it comes to being outdoors. But there’s something special to gathering around a fire to cook food with your fellow campers, whether familiar or not. I have so many core memories around eating with folks around the warmth of the fire. Sometimes while leading an outdoor trip with a pack of hangry students (my co-facilitator ((hi Lan)) and I looking at each like holy f*ck we need to feed these kids now!), sometimes with a close group of friends, sometimes with newfound strangers sharing a cluttered campground, sometimes with new friends from the site over. 

Camp eating is a core food memory for me because it reminds me of how food, eating, and intimacy can so easily bring people together, and how important place-setting can be. It doesn’t need to be outdoors for it to carry this intimacy, it just needs the intention and slowness in the present moment. And, I think, intention in setting. Intention in place, intention in grounding. And this I can carry with me and strive toward in my daily life.

It’s been nice to reflect on all the food adventures I’ve had while camping: pupusas and pizza, potatoes and assorted peppers wrapped in tin foil and cooked by the fire, spaghetti and ramen, ye olde sacrificial stop at the fast food drive-in, and of course, the last time I went to Yosemite with friends, eating pitas with sardines and olives, burgers that didn’t quite hit at the Yose restaurant (sorry not sorry), and the odd trail mixed snack.