Crowds gather, a reverent silence descends. A man with a guitar strums quietly accompanied by his friend on a harmonica. A soulful sound. On top of rocks, couples huddle, lovers close and silent, wrapped up warm, waiting for a once-in-a-lifetime spcatical or even an ‘I DO’.
Posers, who have to be seen to be seen, old people on picnic chairs, travel rugs wrapped around their knees, insulated mugs of coffee in hand, people leaned on fences and the Camera-ati, tripods perched three-leggedly awkward on the uneven surface. Hasseblad, Canon, D40, 5D, 5D Mk2, Nikon, the Hassleblad wins the day – envious noises all round. The Japanese owner tells of his image-capture struggles, dropping in and out how much the camera cost.
Camera-talk, the knowledge imparted, shared. Some show-off American males in theor twilight years, talk of histograms and stopping down. Some talk of Photoshop and stitching in the moon in a Ansel Adams way. Why come then? A postcard would surfice. Some get on with th e job quietly and securely. No matter who, the spectacle is like no other.
The face of the mountain, Half Dome, turns from plasticine grey to blue, to soft yellow, to gold, and then as the sun sinks in the sky to the West, its refelcton says farewell to the day, and its parting gift lights the sideways-turned face orangey-red, so deep , like the inside of a blood orange, that we can only wonder at Nature’s gift. As the orange glow pales, thoughts turn to the West. The crowd makes a collective turn, and far across the low sierra, the horizon turns purple and gold, bruised with purple as though a loaded watercolour brush has been run along a straight edge ruler. Jagged peaks point to the sky and grow dark in the evening glow. Suddenly, an individual thought, as the favoured few depart – to look down. Fear, gasp, step back hurriedly – a sheer 3,500 ft drop to the valet floor. Courage gathered, a second view explains the fear, far far below in the evewrgreen darkness, the tops of tiny pines, monopoly sized houses with twinkling lights, like stars fallen to the valley bottom, the whire roofs of the RVS parked in a crscent, the silver thread river like a spillof mercury in a science lab. The only sound is waterfalls crashing floorward in cascading torrents, blown leftwards in a gossamer rainbow on the gentle wind.
Step back , vertiginous, thin air at 8,000ft altitude , dizzying. Altitude sickness. Imagine falling down, down down.
Half moon lights up Half Dome like a silver dollar ready to be spent on Nature’s night.
Hannah Atkinson Photography 