A Mountain Refuge

I had canoed over from my campsite earlier in the afternoon. As the day progressed, a quiet light began to gather. Just before this moment, though, I had been frustrated—shadows stretching longer, the streams too low to shape the water as I had hoped, and the thought of being halfway up a mountain as darkness fell weighing on me. In Baxter, even a headlamp struggles against a moonless night.

Then my pulse quickened. I had found a small stream pond, cedar rising along its banks and granite holding the shoreline. Sunlight dappled through the branches, and the clear mountain water drew me in. Even as a child, I had been mesmerized by rocks shimmering beneath moving water—and here I was again.

As I developed the photos later, I was surprised by the depth of color. I had been so focused on the submerged boulders and the play of light that color had become an afterthought. But no longer. In the shadows, I found myself half expecting something to stir—the quiet presence of the forest, alive and watching.