Tess Needham

It’s April 2004, and I’m visiting San Francisco for the first time.

I don’t know that, in the future, I will end up living in this city for ten years.

I’ve seen pictures of Yosemite National Park. It looks almost too perfect, the stuff of movies. I look at my schedule, at my bank balance, and realise I’m only able to visit there on a day trip.

I’m 22 years old, on my way back to Australia after spending several months working and travelling in the USA. I’m the kind of person who embarks on a very long day trip, just to experience a place.

I rent a car, and hit the road.

When I enter the valley, I slow the car down to a slow crawl as I take in the beauty all around me. Waterfalls, cliffs, and wildflowers. It’s wonderful.

I drive into the village, park, and heed all the warnings about not leaving food in my car. I can’t imagine how a bear would get in and steal anything, but I’m not taking my chances.

I’m looking around the visitors’ centre, and as I walk out the exit I hear a strange, rapid thumping sound. I’ve never heard this before.

What could it be? Earthquake? Avalanche?

My head whips around, scanning across the village to see what’s causing the commotion. The thumping becomes louder, and then suddenly, a whole herd of deer emerge from the woods. They thunder through the main street of the village, and disappear again into the trees on the other side.

I’m enchanted. This place truly is magical.

I revisit Yosemite several times over the years. After that first visit in Spring, subsequent visits are usually in Autumn, when the summer’s heat has died down, and the waterfalls slowed to a trickle.

The red, orange, and yellow leaves rustle as the breeze ripples through them. The air turns crisp as soon as the sun dips below the great, hulking cliffs. There’s a peaceful quiet as the summer crows dissipate.

I never tire of this place.