Amber light rings the rich brown earth. Flames of the campfire reach up, as if grasping for the dark canopy of spreading tree limbs.
Low noises come from the periphery of the camp. The night stirring creatures tread the forest floor, or amble about on their perches in the trees. The fire hisses and crackles; a piece of wood splits in the heated pit and tumbles to lie up against the stone circle containing the blaze.
Down the slope, a small creek whispers up against the shallow embankment, then winds a course away from the camp.
The old folding chair creaks as I settle down into it, put my feet up on the footstool close to the fire. Firefly sparks of rust-orange, leap from the sheets of flame. They dance in the smoke before winking out in mid-flight.
The air is crisp, with a bite to it. I lean back in my chair, tilt my head up and gaze at the patch of black, black sky, pierced with glitters of pinpricked light. I pull in a breath, heady with the perfumes of wood smoke, evergreen, loam, and the early autumn night.
Small stones and the dry fallen pine needles crunch in the shadows of my fire. I turn to the sound. Behind me, two spots of light bob in the dark and move from side to side. Then, I make out the contrasts of white and black; tan and gray. Two tiny, delicate paws pad out and stop at the fringe of light. The glowing spots blink; then the raccoon lowers its chubby back end to the forest floor and quietly stares at me. It begins to idly work its tiny front paws back and forth in the dirt and needles.
I smile. High above, the trees drag to and fro in the wind; the shuddering of their limbs like a low moan. The blinking eyes follow my gaze upward, then veer off to the side; exploring the shadowed depths of the campground. Clever paws mindlessly pick at the earth.
The raccoon dips its head up and down, sniffing in the direction of the iron storage box. Shuffling in the rim of the shadows, the forest bandit waddles over to the iron box.
Stretching up on her hind legs, she inspects the box. Her paws move quickly over the doors of the box, then linger on the latch. And as if performing a magic trick, the paws move furiously on the latch, prying and lifting; a blur of movement; a slight of paw. But the mechanism does not give way, and clearly this frustrates her.
She then trundles over to me. She stops what she feels is a safe distance from me, sits up, and stares impatiently. She is sending mental pictures to me.
I watch the fire and the raccoon, then reach into my coat pocket and fish out an apple. From another pocket I withdraw a pocket knife. Placing them on the footstool, I cut the apple into four slices. I sample one of the pieces and she cautiously reaches out to me with her delicate front paws. I grab a slice of the apple and offer it to her. She extends her forelegs, and then curls her paws around the offering; a brush of fur and nail on my fingers, then quickly gone.
Fingering the treasure in her paws, she regards me for a quiet moment, then lowers herself to the ground. She stuffs the slice of apple into her mouth, turns, and toddles away, toward the stream.
I watch her retreat, until she and the shadows become one.
Somewhere in the dark, someone is softly playing a guitar. In another corner of dark, I can hear someone chopping wood. Faint snatches of conversation twist in the wind and carry over to me.
I stare back into the flames and listen to the snapping discourse of burning wood. It is getting chillier by the moment.
Overhead, I hear the high piping squeak of a bat, as it dodges in and out of the illumination from the blaze: grabbing a meal on the wing.
I finish the apple and decide to call it a night. At the entrance of my tent, I take my shoes off, shake them free of debris and place them inside. In the tent, I change clothes quickly and slip into my sleeping bag.
As the warmth from my body heats up the confines of the bag, the smells of wood smoke and pine waft up from the flannel lining, and from my hair and skin. The air is cold on my face and I snuggle deeper in.
I rise to the songs of a multitude of birds; in the trees above my tent, on boulders that line the campground, on wooden rails that front the meadow to the west. After dressing in jeans and a sweatshirt, I step outside and glance through the trees, into the meadow.
Though the columns of light that pierce through the forested valley are warm, it is still cool in the shadows and I prepare to make a fire. I have only the weekend here to savor the out of doors. But I have those two days well planned. I am looking forward to my hike to Indian Caves, and Mirror Lake.
And that is just the start. Yosemite Valley holds many wonderful sights to explore.
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Copyright 2003 by Kathy Pippig Harris
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