Say the word Yosemite, and someone will whisper 'Ansel' in return. As a lad, in the scouts, we hiked from Devil's Postpile into Yosemite. Cold crisp mornings, stroganoff, switchbacks, and the cleanest granite you've ever seen. And to me, and others no doubt, the granite somehow provides the essential mental image of the high country. 'Tis the 'scrith' laid bare, the understructure, the very bones of the mountains, so satisfyingly strong yet laid about in random confusion tumbled here and there in chaotic heaps. Mighty forces have forged these stones and others moved them, scoured them, polished them to a lustre of the finest brass. We but scurry about their flanks, clattering over the scree, in awe and wonder looking for the breccia of creation.
Photo: Twilight of the Gods, ©2010 Timothy A. Sandstrom
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