There’s nothing like driving up to Yosemite with people who have flown in from half a world away, and as soon as we entered the park, mist and fog falls to the ground. Literally, to the ground. We could not see what was beyond the side of the road. Then when we got to our campsite, it started pouring. Mike borrowed a shovel from the well-prepared folks next door to dig channels to encourage the water away from our campsite.
Then, the rain stopped. The mist pulled away, and the park revealed itself. Slowly and magically.
The rain held off for an evening stroll, campfire dinner and s’mores, and even some stargazing along the dark river. It rained more during the night, but we were toasty warm in our sleeping bags. Then it stopped again for breakfast and Jiffy pop over the campfire, and two more days of hikes among the silent, mist-wrapped rocks and meadows.