A Night Hike

DSC03891   Some moments brand a lasting scar.   Like times spent marching on moonlit beaches, legs burning - the exertion of miles and miles.  Heavy packs and right awkward boards.   Keep moving, tide’s changing, sheer cliff’s looming - don’t get caught.  Watch the step, but don’t forget the stars.  Or the rocks.  The low tide moon-sparkle on the wet, and the deepest blacks of all colours at once.  20-20 everywhere.  Wanna stay and wonder, but gotta keep moving.  Eat a carrot.  Eat another.  Keep going.   Drink in the silhouetted redwoods as they march past.  Breathe out warm white swirls into the cold black immensity.   The allure of shimmering ahead, rising silver behind the cliffs…   Its distant glow casts soft light across the toppled tree - draws us in, standing enamoured.  How can something so wise, so beyond our small selves of comprehension lay like this at our feet?  Vulnerable beyond repair, breaking hearts.  A behemoth redwood root-ball 20ft in gnarled diameter, most of it worn away from the years it’s spent half buried in the shores of this mighty black sand beach.  The sad and knowing monumental trunk reaching into the depths of who knows where.   A broken memory of the moments when we still had respect – before the fucking televisions sequestered our hearts and minds.   Those moments when Mother Nature might obliterate our scurrying selves, balanced on slick cobbleboulders - whitewater churning below our feet with shorepounds overhead.  And the torn souls trapped in the rushing shallows - their white-laced hands hissing and grasping desperately for our slip.   But turn off the head torch for a moment, we’ve hit the low tide sand pack.  Turn it off…   It’s moving to hike without it.   Now look up, look at the moon.  Oh my god, look at the moon…   We’re here...   We’re here.   DSC03894

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