There were rumination’s that liked to linger outside the warming glow of the town’s old hotel, watching intently through fogging windows as diffidence poured into pints of frothy chocolate stout.

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...