The Other Side of Yosemite

Luxury and solitude are not endangered at Hotel Chateau du Sureau, a chic hideout just minutes from the national park

MY DAYS OF SITTING AROUND A CAMPFIRE passing around jugs of Spinada, and singing Neil Young songs deep into the night are, for the most part, over. As I have seasoned, my insatiable appetite for adventurous travel has become Tiffany-twisted. I was once content to sleep under the stars in an Army-Navy sleeping bag, but now my comfort level leans (heavily) toward sheets of the highest thread count and comforters of the softest down. The price point of my personal wine list has risen accordingly, and Spinada is nowhere near it. Only my soft spot for Mr. Young remains unfettered.

So I was faced with a real dilemma when my outdoor-loving, spoiled spirit yearned for a fix of Yosemite National Park. After all, how can a middle-aged girl successfully merge her wilderness wanderlust with her hyperactive Robin Leach-style sensibilities? And is it possible to find solitude and serenity in a national park that happens to be one of the most visited national parks in the world?

To paraphrase a fortune cookie I read a long time ago, to make the first step toward serenity, you must sit very still. A TV helps, too. One night, I stumbled upon a rerun of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Mr. Caviar Dreams was covering the 10th anniversary celebration for Erna’s Elderberry House Restaurant in Oakhurst, California. I watched as Leach toured the adjoining Hotel Château du Sureau, a prestigious 10-room Relais & Chateaux hotel owned by chef, restaurateur, and hotelier Erna Kubin-Clanin. The interior shots of the charming, old-world inn convinced me that it was the perfect spot to fulfill my champagne wishes.

The last time I went to Yosemite to relax, it wasn’t very relaxing. Appreciating nature is hard to do when tour buses, baby strollers, and RVs are constantly thwarting your quest for inner peace. Yosemite Valley is always full of people and traffic snaking around the glorious granite domes and spires, vast meadows, and deep river canyons in the densely forested “wilderness.” Buses, bikes, and Harleys pack the 7-mile-long, one-half-mile-wide valley, cruising such natural attractions as Glacier Point, Half Dome, El Capitan, Cathedral Rock, Yosemite Falls, and Bridalveil Fall. Beneath some of the highest waterfalls and the most stunning geological formations in the world, there are thousands of cramped campsites, crowded hotels, and run-down lodges. Hordes of international tourists crowd curio shops, tram rides, pizza joints, and hiking trails. By August, the underpaid park rangers who have been dealing with rude and demanding masses for months are, let’s just say, not easily humored.

But I figured out how to avoid the madness only 30 minutes after arriving in Oakhurst. First I headed to the Southern Yosemite Visitors Center where Alfred, a senior volunteer, was speechless when I asked for “anti-Yosemite experiences.” Accustomed to fielding requests for the same old sites, Alfred eventually caught my drift and recommended driving the Sierra Vista National Scenic Byway, a route just south of Yosemite’s border that runs almost 100 miles through some of the most majestic country in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. But I scored the mother lode of my information at the local “import” shop when the shopkeeper, an aging hippie who could have doubled for Dennis Hopper, pulled out a tattered map and circled a few of his secret spots. I snagged a couple of packs of Nag Champa incense and headed up the hill to the hotel to begin my sojourn to serenity.

Past the grand iron gates emblazoned with the Château du Sureau crest, I pulled up to the front steps of the Mediterranean-style stucco mansion, which is surrounded by perfectly manicured flower gardens, water fountains, a swimming pool, and granite pathways. The heavy aroma of the blooming lupines (think bluebonnets on steroids) that grow wild on the grounds of the estate greeted my senses. The double doors opened, a butler took my luggage, and my chambermaid dressed in a long black dress covered with a white ruffled-linen apron showed me to the Rosehip room. (Ah, the charms and hospitality of Europe’s grand homes!) A Chopin CD played softly in the background as I took inventory of the fairy-tale room—French antiques, fresh flowers, Italian linens, down comforter, and a huge soaking tub with a view of the snow-capped mountains I intended to hike the next day. A complimentary afternoon snack (a fresh-baked croissant filled with chicken and grilled onions) soon arrived on a silver tray.

As the sun set, I wandered around the 9.5-acre estate, passing a life-sized chess set and a bocce ball court before planting myself on the gazebo that overlooks a tranquil pond. I settled into an overstuffed chair and let the nearby dripping fountain lull me. I was at the midpoint between relaxation and sleep when a 3-foot-tall blue heron landed on the arm of my chair. For a split-second our eyes locked in fear before we both screeched in shock and flew in different directions. My peaceful state was gone, but at least I got to commune with nature.

The next morning, I readied myself for a long day of exploring. My power breakfast included rice pudding with maple sauce, followed by a vegetable frittata with smoked salmon. I gassed up my rented Galant and headed for the backcountry roads that wind through the hills outside of the southern edge of the park. My first stop was at the dead-end spur off a rough forest road at Nelder Grove, the least-known thicket of giant sequoia trees. While the tourists were falling over each other to gawk at the popular Mariposa Grove in Yosemite Park 10 miles north, I hiked among the gigantic cinnamon-colored trunks, accompanied only by darting deer.

My next stop was Fresno Dome, a rock formation that tops out at 7,540 feet and is popular with climbers but certainly not tourists. On the way I stopped beside Willow Creek. With no trail in sight I set out like James Hutchings, the pathfinder credited as the primary explorer and promoter of Yosemite, to discover my own wilderness. Following the raging waters for about a mile, I found myself in a secluded forest. Two sugar pines at least 10 feet in diameter bowed out of the side of the hill over the riverbed, forming a natural hammock complete with a soft, pine-needle mattress. Sleep came easily. Forty-five minutes later, I opened my eyes to find three deer grazing 20 feet from my bare toes.

After 10 hours of nature, I made my way back to the luxury of the Château and seated myself in a comfortable banquette in Erna’s Elderberry House. I couldn’t help thinking about all the hot dogs roasting on open fires just 20 miles away as I dipped my spoon into a chilled blueberry Chianti soup studded with venison tartare. “Do they even make Spinada anymore?” I wondered as I sipped a Pinot Noir and devoured beef tenderloin served with a purée of white beans, roasted garlic, and porcini mushrooms. After a sophisticated salad of shaved fennel and grilled peaches, I retired to the patio to finish my Black Forest chocolate pâté under the brilliant stars.

As the Yosemite campers waited in community showers, I filled my tub with bath salts and bubble bath. My evening hostess brought me an after-dinner cocktail. Accompanied only by Mozart, I settled into the tub, picked a pine needle out of my toe ring, and soaked my happy soul. Next time I’ll remember to pack my Neil Young CDs.