WE'RE LIKE AN ACCORDION, strung out along the canyon, our bellows breathing in and out as we move down the trail. We're in Yosemite, in the backcountry on the Tuolumne Trail, and now our folds have been pushed in, our sound a cacophony as we stack up, together again, to examine what's on the trail.

"Hmm, it's not horse poo."

"Nope. Not mountain lion poo either."

"It's so red!"

"Bear poo." Michael declares, "A bear eating berries." We all nod at Michael's pronouncement and mutter, "Hmm, bear poo." and "look at that bear poo." And then we wind back up, our folds pulling apart and the sound of us, the accordion, pulls away and grows softer.

The four of us began on the east end of the Tuolumne Valley, it's a canyon that runs parallel to the Yosemite Valley, and was carved by a glacier that left it with similar soaring granite features. The trail follows Tuolumne River down to the Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, then it switchbacks up, out of the canyon and forks; to the right is the main road and to the left is the Ten Lakes Region and a long trail back to the beginning, Tuolumne Meadows. We plan on making the whole 58 mile loop in about six days.

The trail is a hikers paradise; well maintained, even paved with stones at points, wide and beautiful. The first five miles gently slopes downhill through fragrant forest and granite boulders with a meandering river - green in the sunlight - snaking along beside us. After passing the simple Glen Aulin campground the landscape changed, steepening downwards and becoming mostly granite with a few pine trees clinging to the cracks. Soon waterfalls spilled around every corner and I was thrilled, shouting about them over their deafening roar.

Miles later the waterfalls continue, almost like one long crashing gusher, getting bigger and bigger as we descend the valley. We pass the biggest, Waterwheel Falls, in the late afternoon, a spectacular raging fall that doubles back on itself causing huge spouts that look like the enormous paddle wheels of an old time river boat.

OUR FIRST CAMP IS ALONG THE CRASHING RIVER, in a mosquito infested swampland amid huge evergreen trees and the soft, sweet smell of pine needles. Michael is building a fire to smoke the bugs away while Matt and Terry debate our placement on the map.

"See if you can find a L-O-G for the fire," Michael says to me.

"A L-O-G? You sure are spelling a lot lately." I say, "I'll get you one B-I-G one."

Matt's brow furrowed, "a B-I-G-L-O-G? If we're going to spell, shouldn't we be spelling more complex words? Shouldn't we try to expand our vocabularies and our spelling A-B-I-L-I-T-I-E-S?"

FRESH PINE WAFTED UP and ferns dotted the trail as we continued to drop into the valley on the second day in. The tight granite walls on either side of us wept with the spring snowmelt, while rivers gushed everywhere around us. Wildflowers abounded. Each time Matt found a smelly plant, like sage or bay, he took a leaf and rubbed himself. "A sage shower," he proclaimed, "Time to bay up and get clean!"

We've had to cross many rivers flowing down the mountainsides into the main Tuolumne River, some are bridged, but many rely on stepping stones that are under a foot of fresh snowmelt when we get to them. Matt and I make our way along a ridge after a crossing and look down into the valley below us, "look at that," Matt says, pointing, "C-O-N-F-L-U-E-N-C-E."

"Umm, C-O-N-F-L-U-N-C-E?"

"No, C-O-N-F-L-U-E-N-E-N-C-E."

"You must mean C-O-N-F-L-E-N-C-E."

"No, no, it's C-O-N-F-L-U-E-N-C-E."

"Hmm, okay, C-O-N-F-L-U-E-N-C-E."

Terry walks up to us and looks down at the valley, "hey look at that," he says.

"Yes," Matt says, "It's a C-O-N-F-L-U-E-N-C-E of rivers"

After ten miles we made it to the Pate Valley, it's the first time since starting in Tuolumne Meadows that the river has calmed down a little bit. The water is still moving fast and the guys all jump in, screaming from the cold and drift downriver a few meters before jumping out, hooting, on the bank. We camped at a sandy riverside spot with huge stumps for tables and chairs around a rectangle fire pit. It is a magnificent campsite with what we deem to be our very own meadow and a great fishing hole right on our front step.

There is a beautiful bush with white flowers, a mountain honeysuckle of some kind, "It smells so good, "I say, "It's like bay for G-I-R-L-S."

"B-A-Y up" Matt says and picks a leaf.

A 1913 PROPOSAL TO DAM THE MIGHTY TUOLUMNE RIVER and fill the Hetch Hetchy valley prompted John Muir to declare, "Dam Hetch Hetchy! As well dam for water-tanks the people's cathedrals and churches, for no holier temple has ever been consecrated by the heart of man." His anger spurred a heated debate that raged in even the New York Times editorial section. Readers sent in missives urging lawmakers to see the dam as a symbol for all National Park treasures. "Legal walls must be built about them for defense, for every park will be attacked. Men and municipalities who wish something for nothing will encroach upon them if permitted. The Hetch Hetchy Valley in the Yosemite National Park is an illustration of this universal struggle."

It is a struggle that was lost to the Raker Bill, which brought on the construction of the o'Shaughnessy Dam later that year, but it convinced future generations of lawmakers to stop legislation that would dam unique and scenic landscapes.

Today, the Hetch Hetchy Reservoir provides San Francisco with an average of 220 million gallons per day of exceptionally high-quality water to over 2.4 million people, and generates an annual average of 1.7 billion kilowatt-hours hydroelectricity. But the debate about the value of the dam has been revived with environmentalists calling to tear the dam down and restore the valley habitat.

In 2006 Governor Schwarzenegger released a report reviewing the impacts of removing the dam and providing other means of water and power for San Francisco. While the 68 page report states that restoration and removing the dam is feasible, it cites no recommendation of action and believes that more research is necessary. Plus, there's that huge price tag on ripping out millions of tons of concrete.

Proponents understate the costs involved to less than 1 billion. The Restore Hetch Hetchy Foundation, the loudest supporter of tearing down the dam, believes that projects further downriver can supplant the water volume lost with removing the dam. They believe that the beauty of the Hetch Hetchy valley is a resource that could be enjoyed by all people, just like Yosemite, instead of being used as a water vessel for the people of San Francisco. The state report on the valley weighs the "non-use benefits" which include the sheer beauty of a place and reports that there are only four glacier carved valleys in California, and many of the features of Hetch Hetchy are unique.

Those who want to keep the dam inflate the price up to 10 billion dollars and cite a medley of environmental hazards involved in the project. One writer complains that, "San Franciscans took an immense risk and labored winter and summer for 22 years, expending treasure, honest sweat and even lives to build the Hetch Hetchy system. Eighty-nine people died to build it. Willfully undoing it demeans and dishonors their titanic labor and legacy. Be patient. A more appropriate moment to dismantle this work will come at the end of O'Shaughnessy Dam's useful life." Others state that water quality and ease of procurement will diminish with the removal of the dam, promoting even higher costs associated with the project.

THE PATE VALLEY IS PRETTY SHORT, up ahead the Muir Gorge is impassable and early our third morning we are already climbing switchbacks out of the canyon to avoid the tight cliffs. The trail leads us through a dappled shady forest of huge pine trees and Snow Plant, a red fleshy flower without leaves that seems to sprout from the ground obscenely.

The forest falls away to exposed rock and scrubby bushes. Creeks come bubbling madly by us, rushing down the incline. We pass a big granite bulge, skirting the top and see the Tuolumne River rushing down the gorge, thousands of feet below us. A waterfall sprouts from the rock face and tumbles down a free fall to the valley. I feel a pinch of sadness to leave the river I've grown so accustomed to behind.

We traverse the granite knobs and head into forests again, to another needle down path until we reach the next set of switchbacks, drawing us closer and closer to the top of the canyon. The trail is nearly paved like an old bumpy cobblestone road, and wildflowers sprout from its edges. It's been six miles of grueling non-stop incline and Terry has fallen far, far behind us. We wait at what seems like the top of the world. We can see ridges of mountains streaming in both directions; we can see the charging river, turquoise as it tumbles, all whitewater, over the rocky floor. We can see the river abruptly stop at the calm Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, which floods the canyon further down, into the distance.

Alone, I hike up to the highest point I can manage along this ridge and look down. The river looks like a crazed, wild animal, throwing off white spray and devouring everything in its way; even from this height I can hear it thundering. The reservoir is a perfect contrast; it looks flat and paralyzed, deep blue. I can see Wapama Falls in the distance, a massive 1300 foot fall, crashing onto granite boulders and spilling into the lake. I try to step back in time and see the valley without the reservoir.

I climb down and find that Terry has caught up to us and admits that he's having knee problems and is considering walking out before we turn back up towards the Ten Lakes region on our loop. He looks like he's in pain.

Once we've made it to the top, we're walking the huge mountain's ridgeline, still climbing, but more gently now. There are vernal pools, alpine lakes, mushy meadows, wildflowers, and bear tracks through the mud. At the fork in the trail we again wait for Terry and plot. We're trying to come up with a way to get him to keep coming with us. When he pulls up, we begin our assault, commenting that it's too late to walk out now, he'll have to hitchhike to the car and find a place to camp that night. It would be easier, we argue, to camp with us tonight, take a short route out to the road and hitchhike tomorrow. I can see things dancing in Terry's head as he resists us; a big dinner, a beer, a swimming pool with girls in bikinis rubbing sunscreen on.

Michael says, "It's our wedding anniversary tomorrow and so I brought scotch to celebrate with. If you come with us and camp tonight, I'll open it early. Come on for one more night, we'll have dinner and scotch and then you can go, if you still want to, in the morning."

Terry stood up, "I had my heart set on leaving tonight, but that's it. One more night." And he took the left fork, climbing even higher onwards.

After a final push through forest spotted with snowdrifts and criss-crossed with wet bubbling streams, we climb over a ridge and see our day's prize, Lukens Lake. Huge pines ring the lake edge and there's a meadow with grazing deer at the far end. It's like heaven.

Camp is beautiful in the waning afternoon light, 4400 feet over our last camp. Matt is fly-fishing from a downed log in the lake, Michael is shooting pictures and Terry relaxes on the shore. Three girls and two guys stroll through camp, they grin at us and land on a still-sunny bank in the fading afternoon. I am wearing my fleece hoodie, gloves and a beanie. The group of five strips down to bathing suits and jumps in the freezing alpine lake. "Bikinis!" I shout. The guys look up.

"Terry!" Matt says, "There's bikinis here, see? It's a sign."

"Hold on, there's bikinis here? Swimming in this lake?" Terry is suddenly alert.

"Can you believe it?" Michael says, pulling out his binoculars to make sure.

"They're crazy" Matt says "We've got to give them credit, that's a wild thing to do."

We stare unabashedly at them across the lake, unable to stop watching the spectacle "Jeaze, they're swimming. They're still out there swimming." We babble and wonder at it, expecting the group to get out and wrap themselves in towels any second, but they continue to swim, leisurely.

As the light dims, the party splashes around, they drag themselves out of the freezing water and we breathe a sigh of relief - then they cannon-ball back in and we all yelp for them, amazed at their abilities.

When they walk by our camp we commend them. Smiling, they walk on in their dripping suits, towels draped casually on their shoulders, as if they've just emerged from pool on a summer day.

"WE'RE A LOT FASTER TEAM WITH OUT THE T," Matt says as we speed along the trail hitting six miles in just under two hours. "I miss the T already, I mean, we're just an Eam now, but man are we fast."

At a creek crossing we lose the trail and each of us thinks we have the solution. Not one of us decides to go back to the crossing where we lost the trail, no, we each decide to blaze ahead and try to find it. Matt pulls out his compass and tries to position us. Michael finds a few cairns and scouts out over the rocks. I find an old campsite and some charred sticks so I scout for a trail into the site that might put us back on track. With no trail emerging, we decide to set a bearing and walk. We know that we've got about 600 feet to climb so we guess at the ridge and begin scampering up the face. It's slow work bouldering up, skipping over trickling streams, but I'm reenergized by being lost. I feel like a mountain goat.

From the top of the hill we can clearly see the meadow below us, the boulder field that we got lost in, and the trail, heading the opposite direction. But at this level, we can see where we need to go and we take the ridgeline over to a saddle that puts us right back on the trail. "That was a detour that Terry is glad to have missed." Michael says.

"We're still fast, though, look, we're not even off schedule." We're standing in a drift of snow, we can hear it melting under us and drip away. From the saddle we can see down into the valley pocket we've been waiting for. Granite peaks ring a pine tree covered area dotted with small, jewel-like lakes. The rocky trail switchbacks down, with stunning views the whole way.

We choose the lowest alpine lake at about 9400 feet to make our camp. The forest is more sparse and finding firewood is more difficult, but we happily shed our packs and walk all over the area, scouting for wood, fishing the lake edge and catching us a fine dinner.

This camp with its rushing stream, snowdrifts, and solitude, is our favorite. The lake is visible behind a few huge Ponderosa pines and the sunlight dances through the branches in dappled splotches. In the evening we drank our scotch in celebration of our anniversary, sat around a good fire, and we roasted small, fresh trout on our backcountry grill. We complained that Terry had left us, and took turns jesting about the things he was now enjoying back at the valley floor; eating steak, finding women, tending his wounds.

EACH EVENING WE SECURE OUR CAMP by packing away all our loose ends and storing our food in bear canisters that we place outside of camp. On our fifth morning, Michael woke first, as usual, and examined the camp. The visor he had hung from a tree branch was buried in the dirt and soaking wet. He picked it up and turned it over and over. A deer had munched the visor for the salt in it.

Michael put the visor, dirt and all, on his head and declared that the deer nibbling made the visor even better. "Look," he said, "You can see the teeth marks!" Then he strutted down to the lake's edge and tossed in a lure. Matt and I, over coffee, could hear Michael shouting in joy, he'd caught four fish on his first four casts.

He came back to camp, grinning, and buried his catch in a snowdrift, for lunch. After exploring the surrounding lake and forests, the guys caught twelve fish for lunch; three for me, four for Matt and five for Michael.

Back at our camp I pump water, Michael cleans the fish, and Matt builds the fire. We declare lunch a fish picnic, a fabled and miraculous event. "This is good, G-O-O-D" I say.

"You can't say it then spell it," Michael chides.

"I think spelling is for E-M-P-H-A-S-I-S. So, I can say and spell if I want." It's warm enough that I put on my bikini and bask in the sun on a rock -right next to a snow drift- for an alpine tan; a rare and pleasant thing.

After lunch, we collect more firewood and catch more fish for dinner. We try the lake to the west and find it colder, higher and windy. There are beautiful little snowmelt waterfalls cascading in and out of the lake and it is perfectly circular, it seems. Water pours everywhere in bubbling streams and trickling brooks directly pouring from snow patches, draining through the chain of lakes and spilling over the edge and tumbling all the way to the valley that we walked up these last few days. This is the source of the water that San Francisco will drink all year and it's so clean and pure, the city doesn't have to filter it.

It has been truly spectacular to see the scenery here, to be transported from gushing river valley, to rocky granite highlands. It has been an epic trip so far, the deep, fragrant valleys, the sheer granite cliffs the trails with deep switchbacks, the alpine lakes glowing blue under a clear, bright sky.

ON OUR FINAL MORNING, we're up early and we catch the visor-sucking deer in action. This time she has found a small coil of rope and it's hanging out of her mouth, like a long strand of licorice. As we rustle through our things and pack up, the deer watches us, circles us.

We each have our chores to do; Michael is pumping water and Matt is making coffee. I'm breaking down our tent and stacking bundles of gear. When we've finally got everything all ready to go, I grab my trekking poles that I leaned up against the tree not ten minutes earlier. One of the grips is mangled. Nibbled. Licked by the deer. I catch sight of her through the trees.

"Hey," Michael calls, "You there! You Deer! You've got foam in your teeth!"

We hike out, climbing out the switchbacks and then down on a trail that will take us out to Tioga Pass where at ten am Terry is set to meet us. The deer is still behind us, following along at the saddle. "She's addicted to your visor." Matt says "This is how it all begins, here they are behind us, and look, there's some ahead of us."

"We're surrounded," I say.

"It's the Dee-oud," Matt says, "The Dee-oud is a conspiracy of deer. They like to suck on visors and nibble foam grips. They'll do anything to get more."

"A conspiracy? Or a secret society? Like the KGB, maybe." Michael says.

"Yes, like the KGB, and you know when they flick their tails - everyone thinks that's like a signal to other deer, but it's not. That's the shutter on their ass-cam."

"Oh man, they're sending lots of pictures to headquarters right now."

"They're zooming in on those nice new grips you've got."

The trail winds out of the mountains through wildflower fields and sweet forests. We're hiking very fast and have found that we'll be twenty minutes early to our rendezvous with Terry. "Who wants to put money on when Terry will arrive," Michael says.

"I've got five bucks on 10:10," Matt says.

"That's giving him a lot of credit. I know that he doesn't have an alarm and that he does not get up early enough to make it on time. I'm going with 10:25."

"I think he's going to have a hard time getting up, but is going to feel like it's really important to be on time for us. I'm going with 10:05." I say.

We get to the road in hot blinding sunshine. We pull out our bear canisters and empty them of trash. We line up the cans and sit on them like stools and wait, Michael counting down the minutes. At ten am Michael calls out the time and just as he chides Terry for not being there, we see the black Trooper pull into the parking lot. I jump up and shout "I won! Go T-E-A-M!"

In the cacophony of our accordion banging back together, the shouts and stories we tell over each other, Terry pulls out a cooler of beer and opens us each one. We're a team again.