In The Dark
- Marco Maynard
- Feb 24
- 2 min read
Updated: Mar 2
The first half of winter saw little snow and time would nearly stop with late January sun sweeping into the red swoons of cedar, so I always ended up leaving in the dark.
Golden hour in the Sierra's has a knack for ushering away worries with warm tones of optimistic orange that welcome you to stay awhile. Honks from tundra swans across the lake echoed weightlessly in veracious hues of alpenglow, and the chickadee murmured above bustling in high canopies. They always knew when the dark was coming, and as the sun tucked behind the furthest range the cold would pour into bitter blue silence.
A brief period of dim light would leave the granite cool enough to hold onto a half second more, just before your fingers would go numb, but long enough to afford a swell of blank spaces lifting you over gleaming airy expanses.
I liked to come here for that hour of quiet, when the granite was willing to have good conversation. It didn't matter much to me if I met the summit of stone I had blundered - there was always intimacy in progress, which spoke generously about the things no one else seemed to care for. Sometimes that meant there was more to carry home when you left through the silent blue, sinking deeper into shadows and snow that muddied with blackening night. Throughout the fall and into winters bleak start we sauntered glowing ambience, beyond the paleness of dusk, summiting shapes and harkening well traveled thoughts along the way.
But as relentless as time had made it feel before to head south, I still found myself in the strange hollow clutches of the dark, beckoned back North, mourning the deep green magic of cascading earth I had left far behind. Yet there we were, a broken band of common ground standing doubtful in California sun, glaring and stark. To us this was home, shape shifting through timeless fractures and positive edges, yet still, the coffee was bitter and bold.
Snow has finally arrived in February and winter seems to have closed its doors. Undoubtedly, there remains a heap of stone to amaze in Spring - but for now, I'll need to cast away into eddies along a sterling stream, and reel through sunny ripples of reflections whose stories I've been meaning to tell.
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