Yosemite28 October, 2015
UMBER STREAKS OVER SIENNA, STABS OF VERDIGRIS DAPPLE DRY SWIPES OF VIRIDIAN, BOLD GUNMETAL TUMBLES OVER BULLHIDE. A THREAD OF SILVER FRAYS FAR ABOVE, PAINTING THE WALL OF ROCK DARK, SOWING THE AIR WITH MIST.
Wide avenues, half full parking lots, and low buildings under bright advertising hoardings disappear behind us in the rear view mirror. The road curves up between russet hills, low scrub clings to sliding dust, and sparse saplings stagger up to rounded summits. Inclines steepen, scorched grass nudges at the carriageway, and trunks like fists anchor twisted trees to treacherous dirt. Higher still, whispering canopies lean in over the sunbaked tarmac as foliage darkens and thickens. Pines spike at white laced blue. A hissing membrane of water is torn, green and grey, into ropes of foam beside the road, drumming over chunks of granite in all shapes and sizes like the assembled skulls of a menagerie. Around a curve, slopes tip suddenly skywards, jutting into titanic teeth, broken and grey. On foot now, we cross a wooden walkway slung between stone pylons, the river beneath heaving and rolling in a muscular sheet. We follow the flow as it narrows to swift green glass over yellow sand, and a broad path plunges into a cathedral of vertical lines. Umber streaks over sienna, stabs of verdigris dapple dry swipes of viridian, bold gunmetal tumbles over bullhide. A thread of silver frays far above, painting the wall of rock dark, sowing the air with mist. At the summit, trees wriggle their toes into cracks between liquid slabs of rock, and the sky is scrubbed clean. The thin air is populated with dreams of flying. As close to the edge as I dare, I rock, once, twice, onto the balls of my feet. I imagine pushing myself into the vault of blue, over mountains stretching to the horizon like rumpled bolts of midnight velvet.