On never forgetting the valley.
Yesterday was cold in California, or rather, it was cold for California. Rainy too. I walked home from the train station as shadow and Earth began their nightly embrace. I couldn't help but remember December along the meadows and riverbanks of Yosemite.
The links in the margin will take you to see earlier images in this series; a set of posts of which I am particularly fond. Our descent into the valley on this evening was particularly dramatic and memorable—ranking alongside my first trip through the Absaroka Range into the sulfurous environs of Yellowstone National Park.
In the darkness before dinner comes, in the gathering cold, when this great Californian adventure has come to its end, this is how I will remember Yosemite: wreathed in fog and flowing everywhere with winter.
I return to the valley with family this weekend. I am in the enviable position of having lost track of how many times I've come to this narrow stretch of paradise, yet no matter the number of visits, I am not sated and suspect I never will be.
And in the hours before sleep, you'll find me wandering these blue, fog-filled granite corridors, camera in hand and lungs full.