THE DESCENT OF Tenaya Canyon has trap written all over it. Some who’ve through-hiked it refer to the place as the Bermuda Triangle of Yosemite, and apparently rangers rescue and recover folks from it all too often.

When you arrive at Tenaya Lake, which sits at 8,150 feet, nothing looks difficult or desperate about the route’s start, but a short distance in the granite steepens and the plot thickens. The descent covers ten rugged miles and drops 4,200 feet. There’s no trail, and during the scramble down there are plenty of places to break legs, crack skulls, and get swept away in high water. It takes capable teams a full day to complete, with time allotted for the odd picnic and a short nap in the California sunshine.

Not surprisingly, those who survive the journey recall the incredible views of Half Dome, Mount Watkins, and Cloud’s Rest. They tell of strolling through the wondrously vast and polished granite bowls that once hosted Yosemite’s hardworking and long-gone glaciers. Where those bowls funnel into a vertically walled rock gorge, climbers speak of frolicking in Tenaya Creek’s emerald pools and only casually mention the route-finding and rappelling skills they employed to get there. Once they’ve hopped down the creeks’ boulders and emerged into the wide-open valley below Half Dome, they seem barely fazed by the finale, an exit through several miles of thick forest that transitions to campgrounds, lodges, and shuttle buses.

Of course, such breezy descriptions don’t say anything about going down there with your 78-year-old dad. Our proposed mission had been percolating for a few years. I’m not sure I ever did embrace it as a good idea, but eventually I told Dad, “I’m fully committed.” Commitment is unavoidable with this particular Yosemite rite of passage. As far as I could tell, there’s no bail-out option that doesn’t involve a helicopter flight plan and a great deal of explaining shortcomings and overreachings. 

Over the past 60 years, at least 17 people have died and many more have been rescued in Tenaya Canyon, most of them because of high water or falls. In 1872, John Muir received no outside aid whatsoever when he solo-climbed out of Tenaya. Having barely begun, he slipped, smacked his head on a rock, was knocked unconscious, and tumbled downhill. A shrub stopped him just before a steep drop-off. He came to, dusted himself off, and climbed his way out with a concussion. If Muir could do it, why couldn’t we?

But seriously, why did I think we had any right to try the darn thing? For one, I liked the focus that Tenaya Canyon gave Dad, who lives in Manhattan. He’s a fit guy and finished a section hike of the Appalachian Trail two summers back. Having another strenuous goal motivated him to watch what he ate, take every opportunity to go for a hike, and practice rappelling at the climbing gym. 

Plus, Dad has a long history in Yosemite. He grew up in San Francisco and spent big chunks of time during summer vacations living in the Valley. He climbed in Yosemite in the forties and fifties. In the sixties, family and career took precedence, and he let technical climbing go in favor of hiking and backpacking. In the mid-eighties, when his pesky children were out of the way, he got back into a different kind of climbing, with trips to the glaciers of Mount McKinley and Mount Rainier. When I saw his pictures of those places, I began to understand how mere mortals might break into the world of mountaineering. Around that time, he told me he’d go to McKinley with me if I first went to Rainier to learn the ropes. I went, discovered the guide service there, and knew immediately what I wanted to do with my life.

I climbed McKinley twice with Dad, two of 28 expeditions I’ve now managed up that way. Twenty-five years as a professional climbing guide have also resulted in a few hundred Rainier summits, 20 expeditions to 8,000-meter peaks, 15 seasons in Antarctica, and a decent reputation for common sense in uncommon places. My dad had given me the mountains. I believed I owed him Tenaya.