Change is Inevitable

September 14, 2025
Cathedral Lake, Yosemite National Park
Total distance walked: 8.2 trail miles

From the start, this day reminded me that change is inevitable. My sister and I set out from Tuolumne Meadows aiming to hike up to Cathedral Lake. One noticeable change when we arrived: the dirt shoulders at the trailhead were paved and were official roadside parking spots. That’s the good news and the bad news—more pavement but easier parking. I have mixed feelings about that.

On this day, the few spots near the trailhead were already taken. Instead, new signage directed us to park at the Visitor Center where a connecting trail led us to the main one.

I had prepared my sister in advance, warning her that the hike would be mostly uphill. I’d done it three times before—2011, 2014, and 2017—and felt confident in knowing the route. What I hadn’t anticipated was how much my body had changed since my last visit. Maybe it was the elevation—we started at 8,500 feet and climbed to 9,200—but this time, the hike felt especially strenuous for both of us.

As we climbed, my sister mentioned she’d read that the hike could take seven hours. “Seven hours?” I said, surprised. “No way. It only took me four hours round-trip last time.” 

As we neared the lake, I realized that I didn’t recognize a thing. I’d expected a junction, one that split between Upper and Lower Cathedral Lake. But nothing looked familiar, and the only sign pointed toward the John Muir Trail. I knew that Upper Lake was on the John Muir Trail, but with the changes, how far was it?

A hiker passed us and said we weren’t far from the lake. Normally, I’d be up for an adventure and tempted to follow the John Muir Trail to the prettier upper lake, but we were both exhausted and instead chose the sure route. Then, just a few yards ahead, the trees parted—and the lake finally came into view.

In the past, the trail had taken me through Cathedral Meadow—a stretch riddled with deep ruts and often filled with water. I recalled seeing a notice that morning at the trailhead. Suddenly, it all made sense: the unfamiliar terrain, the missing meadow—it was because the park had rerouted the trail to “ecologically restore the meadow.”

After very briefly exploring the area, we settled into the shade with a peaceful view of the lake and unpacked our lunches—though neither of us had much of an appetite after the exhausting climb. Too tired to wander or take in more of the surroundings, we rested quietly before retracing our steps down the trail and back to the car.

On the way down, we got so silly we laughed until we cried. Something about the exhaustion turned everything hilarious. Later, my sister admitted she was completely traumatized by the hike. I didn’t think it was that bad—but it was definitely different from any other time I’ve done it.

During a break, I looked up from the log I sat on and saw the top of a tree thick with pinecones. Nearby, another tree held just a single pinecone outlined by the sky. The contrast felt like a sign: the day was winding down, and so were we. Time to keep moving.

In the end, my sister was right, it took at least seven hours roundtrip including our rest time at the lake. We were on the trail later than I’d ever been before. Thankfully, we reached a spot with cell service and were able to text our husbands to let them know we’d be home late.

As we drove away from Tuolumne Meadows, tired but content, I couldn’t help but reflect about how much had shifted—both in the landscape and in myself. The rerouted trail, the new signage, the added pavement—all subtle reminders that even familiar places evolve. And so do we.