We went back to Eastern Sierra, exactly the same time as last year and once came back fully recharged. Certain places have healing power: high Sierra peaks still carrying winter’s snow, like a finger print; the Merced River giggles into white waves turning corners.
When the setting sun hits Half Dome, the Yosemite Valley quiets down into night mode. Standing on the shoulder of Mt. Whitney, awed by the vastness of Owen’s Valley, and shunned by the solemnness of Whitney’s peaks, I deeply inhale the scent of sage that the Eastern Sierra exhales.
Along the entry way to Whitney Portal, there are standing burned trees with bleached trunks; burned black ends with the bleached trunk appears golden, like fully dressed samurai turned into statues.
There is no time here, where wilderness meets stillness and silence hushes the rushed.
