It is the kind of afternoon in which 
			    shade and sun please equally. 
			    Smoke-filled valleys pale below, 
			    but we climb into bluer skies 
			    on remnant snow in the ravines.
How does the trail know where
			    to turn? Why do the wood grouse
			    wait for us around the bend?
			    What makes each pair of trees we pass
			    a new door, an old welcome?
— Sequoia National Park

 
				 
				 
				 
				 
				





