Just over 11,000 ft up in 'Patriarch'. It's hard to put into words, this grove. People come streaming by, some pause briefly to take a picture then go; others wander reverently where raised voices seem out of place. Some try to explain it all to those who will listen, telling the story as a stranger might at a wake, how some of these trees have stood since the time of Christ - all told with an earnest tone. But who can say what the cold winter's chill feels like after the ever-too-brief summer sun? Who can fathom the long quiet, the raging storms? We wander briefly amidst the old ones, whose thoughts are much too long and slow for us to hear. We are mere ephemera, a passing shadow to those that remain when we leave.
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