Travel

A Beautiful Route or a Death Trap?

Driving the 120 into Yosemite just two hours into my first American road trip was… an interesting experience

When was the last time you thought you might die?

And I don’t mean a hyperbolic ‘you could have killed me!’ incident. I mean when was the last time you genuinely thought there was a chance you might lose your life?

It’s not a feeling I’m particularly well acquainted with, thankfully, but California’s Highway 120 into Yosemite reintroduced me to it without much prior warning.

I think it’s important at this stage to add a quick disclaimer: I’m aware there will be a fair few of you reading this who’ll scoff at the idea that the 120 is scary. There were people driving at 40-odd miles per hour past us during our foray into the hills, and I doubt they even thought twice about it. When you’re not used to roads like that, though, they have a tendency to make the palms sweat a tad.

For some additional context, our drive from San Francisco to Yosemite represented the first time I’d ever driven abroad. It came during the first leg of our Californian road trip, and I was a little nervous before I’d even pulled out of the airport car park. Everything was on the other side of the road, and I was on the wrong side of the car. That, combined with the different rules here compared with back home meant that, initially at least, it all felt a little daunting.

I fell foul of one of these new rules within about 10 minutes of leaving, in fact. Turning right at a red light is just wrong for so many reasons in the UK, that it took a beep from the car behind me to force me to pull out.

Overall, though, it wasn’t too bad. The freeways were spacious and not as overpopulated as the motorways in England, and the drivers in California seemed pretty chilled. The Californian countryside was absolutely fascinating to me, especially given 90% of my time in a car is spent on anonymous British motorways or a small section of South Northamptonshire. The colours, contours, and general vibe — if you will — of California was awesome. It all felt so genuinely American, and it wasn’t long before we relaxed and started to properly take in the surroundings. I even saw some tumbleweed bouncing across the road in front, which elicited a surprisingly strong reaction from Alex I’ve Only Ever Driven in England Stockton.

But here’s the thing; there are quite a few mountains in California, and they’re not necessarily signposted that clearly. We’d both been looking forward to visiting Yosemite, so we’d been banking on seeing some pretty big rocks during our stay; what we hadn’t anticipated, though, was that we’d have to drive through them for over an hour. As soon as we started climbing, the barriers disappeared and the drops became steeper.

We hadn’t exactly factored this in. After just over two hours of pretty straightforward highways, it looked like there was a distinct possibility we were going to get forced down thinner and higher roads for the rest of our journey. Just how windy and high were these things going to get? We had no real choice other than to find out the hard way, given we were fully relying on our phones’ maps.

By now, my eyes were firmly fixed on the middle of the road and the two thick yellow lines that indicated no overtaking (as if that had ever been on the table). The panic had clearly set in a tad for my wife, not that I was glancing away from the road for a second. I think the complete silence gave it away.

Weirdly, though, I began to relish this challenge after a while. It was scary, for sure, but it was also strangely exciting. I really had to concentrate here and take it slow, being sure to hug the middle of the road as we weaved our way higher and higher. I was under no illusion whatsoever that a lack of concentration or some more reckless manoeuvres would likely see us plummet to our deaths, and that’s not something one can often say in the UK. Having driven in the Lake and Peak Districts before with little more than a quick speed check and the occasional drop to a lower gear, I’d never found myself on a road like the 120 before.

We had the occasional break from the drops, with the charming saloons of Groveland providing some much-needed respite and simpler driving. Generally, though, the hour or so between Moccasin and our destination was tense.

Thankfully, our destination made it all worth it. Yosemite was stunning. I had never seen anything quite like this place, its stark, unforgiving rocks printed against a clear blue sky as the afternoon sun illuminated El Capitan and Half Dome.

We checked our bags in, and the man behind the counter asked us which route we’d taken, as though he already knew what the answer was likely to be.

‘I have known grown-ass men refuse to take that route. It’s pretty scary!’

Firstly, thank you. Yes, it was terrifying and yes, I do appreciate the validation. Secondly, though, I’m a 28-year-old male with a beard. Am I to assume that ‘grown-ass men’ need to be taller than 5 ft 10? Because that’s how it feels.

All joking aside, that made me feel infinitely better about our accidental detour. If the locals found the route tough, then the pride I felt about my successful navigation of the 120 was all the more justified given it was my first time driving in the country.

To make matters even better, after about five minutes of Googling we’d found an alternative route out of the park for the journey to Monterey. While I’ve talked a good game for the past few hundred words or so, I’m not going to pretend that wasn’t a big relief.

We’d take the 140 out of Yosemite to the Arch Rock entrance, and enjoy some more stunning scenery from a slightly lower altitude. Problem solved. Now, it was time to focus on two days of glorious hiking and the kind of scenery that reminds us all just how small we are.

And would I take the 120 again if it were the only way into Yosemite? You bet I would.