The Sierra is a very special place. It is the artistic backbone of the West, for many have come before with their camera, pen, paintbrush, recorder and boots to be equally bathed in that glorious silver light and to lose themselves in the soft pine and hard granite peaks. To venture into the High Sierra is to go inwards, to the heart of the thing, to find that place where the pitch of a distant wind swirling through a granite chasm mixes with the the echo of a lone birdsong mixes with the smell of burnt sienna and pine.
I have worked the Sierra for years with my camera, sometimes getting nothing but the chance to sit in solitude for a crisp morning sunrise and a swim in a glacial blue lake that erases all thought of modern life, of modern worry. And that is enough.
Sitting in solitude on a sierra rock
Some come here, but most turn back
tired and cold,
full of complaints about insane winds
it's just as well, for I am left in solitude, but not alone
the trees, wind and mountains know my name