In July, a friend and I went to Yosemite for a few days, my first time back there in over a decade. The above picture is of Half Dome and, at the bottom right, Nevada Falls, as viewed from Glacier Point.

A day after we returned from our visit, the Ferguson Fire broke out just a few miles west of the park and threatened it, eventually shutting it down for three weeks. It was nerve-racking to watch on TV the fire raging ever closer to the famous valley, with one access road being closed after another. News of the death of a fireman and eerie pictures of the Tunnel View Point engulfed in smoke under a red sky were disturbing, to say the least. So it was great relief when I learned in mid-August that the fire had been finally brought under control, after a full month of unabated havoc.

Yosemite, and the Sierra Nevada in general (King’s Canyon and Sequoia National Parks, Whitney Portal, Mammoth Lakes, Lake Tahoe), have become much more to me than mere scenic vistas and tourist attractions, ever since a dear friend introduced me to the wonderful writings of John Muir and to the joy of hiking and camping, a quarter-century ago. For many years afterward, I went camping there every summer, until life got a bit too complicated and hectic for such simple pleasures anymore. Still, I returned at every chance I got—always in the summer and mostly to the Eastern Sierra, which is not as swamped with tourists as the national parks on the western slope.

But this year I decided to just brave the crowd and return to Yosemite, the special place that holds some of my fondest summer memories. Despite the extreme heat that was blanketing California, the park teemed with visitors from all over the world, a much larger crowd than I’d ever witnessed before, and the valley resounded with all manner of foreign-sounding languages—a lively testament to its universal appeal.

One of my favorite spots in the park is a stretch of land along the Merced River, behind the former Ahwahnee Hotel. It is where the Upper River Campground used to be, back in the days (in the early nineties) when camping was still allowed there. I used to pitch my one-man tent in the shadow of a blooming dogwood tree, just a few steps from the river where one could watch the water ouzel (aka the American dipper) take long dives into the rushing stream in search of food. The view there is as magnificent as anywhere else in the park, with the Royal Arches looming over the stone bridge that leads to the iconic hotel. Another unforgettable memory is of a freak snowstorm in early September one year that sent us packing our tents in the driving sleet and fleeing down the mountains before all access roads were closed.

The campground is long since gone, returned to its natural state. But the stone bridge still leads to the back entrance of the hotel, whose name has been changed (unfortunately, I think) to the Majestic Yosemite Hotel. A short walk from there, Camp Curry (or Curry Village) where we used to go to shower and clean up after long hikes, has also had its name changed. It’s now called Half Dome Village. Personally, I’m not sure what all the name changes were about; they simply erase a lot of tradition and old history without adding any special value in return.

Name changes and larger crowds notwithstanding, Yosemite will always remain one of my favorite summer places. And I hope with all my heart that its timeless beauty will endure against any disasters and will continue to nurture and inspire for generations to come.