My newly released book, Force of Nature, is now available wherever books are sold!
The following fictional short story was my entry into the recent Gold Country Writers Short Story Contest. It was chosen as one of the ten finalists. It’s the first time I’ve written fiction, and the first time I’ve entered a writing contest—if you don’t count elementary school!—so I was thrilled to get that far.
My friend and colleague Philip Jacques won the golden prize with a terrific baseball story called “Triple”. The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place stories will be published in the Auburn Journal, our local newspaper, in the next few days. It will be worth your while to check them all out, but especially “Triple”!
Reflections On Water - A Short Story
I felt, more than heard, a presence behind me. Turning, I saw an older gentleman walk out from between the trees towards the pond’s edge where I stood. He carried hiking poles. I held my camera.
“Good evening,” he said as he drew close. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”
“I’m just glad you aren’t a bear,” I said. Like me, he wore hiking gear—khaki shorts, a shirt marked with a Patagonia logo, cap, and boots.
He stopped where I was setting up my tripod.
“You look like you’re heading out the pond trail,” I said.
“Do it every year,” he said. “Ever since my wife passed—almost twenty years ago now—I hike around this pond on my last night in Yosemite.”
“What a lovely ritual,” I said. “Did you two hike together?”
He pointed eastward with one of his hiking poles at the peak of Mt. Dana. The granite mountain’s head and shoulders stretched into the Sierra blue sky high above the treetops on the far side of the water. “She and I used to hike to the top of Mt. Dana every year when we were younger. It was our special place. In fact, it was fifty years ago today, up at the very top, that I asked her to marry me.”
I could feel a smile spread across my face, matching his. “I take it she said, ‘Yes’?”
“Indeed, she did!” He’d been gazing at Dana while he talked about his wife, then he turned my way, his smile even wider. “And we celebrate our anniversary here in Yosemite every year.”
“Do you still hike to the top?” I asked. I knew from experience it was a challenging climb.
“Nah.” He gave his head a little shake. “Getting too old for that. Nowadays, I come to this spot where I get a double dose of our mountain instead.”
I knew what he meant. Standing where we were on the western edge of the pond, Mt. Dana and the blue sky above her and the treetops below her were all reflected perfectly in the still glass surface of the water. That’s why I was there, camera in hand, anticipating sunset.
“I better be off; I want to be back to my car before dark settles in.” My new friend touched one hiking stick handle to the brim of his cap in a mock hat-tip and headed south along the shoreline.
“Have fun!” I called out to his receding back.
Halfway between Tuolumne Meadows and Tioga Pass this spot is perfect for watching the fleeting moments of the alpenglow sunset effects. A few yards from the road, the still pond is surrounded on three sides by thick pine forest, with Mt. Dana to the east. As the sun settles below the horizon, unseen downhill far to the west, its last warm rays skirt the treetops to set Dana's naked crown afire in the optical phenomenon called alpenglow. Viewed from where I always stand, Mt. Dana's sun-kissed peak is reflected in all its flame-colored glory in the mirrored surface of the water. The intensity of color lasts only a few precious moments, so every year I try to arrive in plenty of time to set up my tripod and camera, hoping to somehow capture the three-dimensional beauty onto my film. Each year, I attempt the feat—each year, it eludes me. It had become a bit of a quest—an ever-elusive pursuit—to get the perfect photo.
While we’d been talking, the sun had begun its descent and Dana’s face blushed pink. As I scurried to get my camera attached to the tripod and focused, fuchsia shifted to salmon. The pond and I were already in deep shadow, and the line of darkness was creeping up from the mountain’s base. Rushed, I held my breath and clicked the shutter several times. I was pretty sure I was too late.
I’d been coming to this spot for several years, always on the last evening of my stay in Tuolumne Meadows. Thus far, never had I come away with the perfect photo I sought.
By chance, the old gentleman and I met again at the same spot two years later. I was still chasing my perfect alpenglow photo—he was there for his ritual walk around the pond’s perimeter. Or so I thought.
That year, he didn’t sneak up on me—I heard him coming. He walked much slower and leaned heavily on his hiking poles. As we talked, I thought he seemed smaller, too.
“We meet again,” he said, smiling, when he got close.
“What a surprise!” I said. “How are you?” I’d been attaching my brand-new camera to the tripod, trying to get a jump on that elusive alpenglow while the sky still shone blue.
“Slowing down a bit,” he said. He was dressed in his well-worn hiking gear—boots, khakis, cap, and all. He wore a half of a smile.
“You going to walk the pond trail again?” I asked.
“Don’t think I’m up to it this time.” His voice was gruff, matter-of-fact. “But I had to stop by my favorite spot and check out Dana’s reflection, anyway.”
His disappointment was contagious. “If you think it would help, I could walk around with you, keep you company,” I said.
“Thanks, but I don’t have the stamina for it anymore.” He pulled a plaid handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face.
The old gentleman walked a few paces closer to the water, touched the handle of his trekking pole to his cap’s brim—mock salute to the now pink-faced mountain, and turned back around. After a second of his unique farewell hat-tips in my direction, he returned to his car and drove off.
Watching him depart, I wondered if the pond and the mountain could feel his absence. When I looked up, the alpenglow was already fading. Without taking picture one, I packed up my gear and returned to camp.
One year later, I return to my spot by the reflecting pond, set up my camera, and await the post-sunset light show. I focus on adjusting camera settings in anticipation of finally capturing that elusive photo.
I feel, more than hear, a presence behind me. Expecting the old gentleman, I turn to see, emerging from the woods not fifty feet away, a breathtakingly beautiful cinnamon-colored bear.
I gasp, then hold my breath. I slip halfway behind a tree. My eyes glued to this face.
Backlit by the last of the sun's horizontal beams filtering through the tree trunks, the bear seems to glow. A fiery halo emanates from his furry bulk. He pauses near a fallen log, and we observe one another for several moments.
“Hello,” I whisper.
The bear and I spend several minutes together, at a cautious distance. I watch his every move—amazed at his beauty, his air of confidence, and his peaceful calm. He strolls forward, inspects the log, and finds some tasty bites under its rotting bark. Satisfied, he walks with smooth casual steps to the pond's edge and pauses to drink.
Turning back to look at me over his broad shoulder, he reaches up to brush his forehead with one large front paw, then sets off along the pond trail.
I have forgotten about my camera. I have taken no photos. But I’m sure the old gentleman has come back to walk his pond again.
Here’s that same mountain years later, from a different angle, but fully bathed in alpenglow colors!
What’s true? What’s fiction?
The pond and the mountain and my annual ritual were true.
The elusive nature of the alpenglow is most definitely true.
The first encounter with the gentleman is mostly true, though the details of his life and our second encounter come from my imagination.
The bear encounter, the best part of the story, is all true!
I’d love to hear about your experiences with alpenglow and/or bears!
Or your experiences writing short stories!
Beautiful!!!
Lovely story