The lantern I've hung on a tree spreads a faint orange glow in the clearing but there's not enough light for my eyes to pick out any details; with my head torch turned off, I can barely see the pasta in my bowl. Beyond my circle of light, the world quickly fades into near total darkness. If I concentrate, I can make out the outlines of trees around me, compact shadows silhouetted against the night sky. Without the distractions of modern life, you become more aware of the sounds around you, and the forest is surprisingly loud; the rustle of leaves, the creaking of branches, the chirping of birds or insects, and the sudden screech of what must be monkeys, off in the distance. I know there's nothing to be afraid of, but I get startled all the same. I've got a fire going but it's not for warmth nor for cooking. It's there because it's supposed to be there. I can't rightly tell if it's some kind of cultural imperative, or if it's an instinct from somewhere deep within me - perhaps a bit of both - but as soon as I arrived at this spot, with my backpack and my tent, I knew in my bones I would need to light a fire. No matter the reason for lighting it, the old magic (if you can call it that) is working, by its very presence, the fire is making me feel secure. It's strange to think about, I'm not easily scared, and I normally don't mind being alone, but coming out here to spend the night on my own - there's no one around for miles - has filled me with unease and I find myself feeling lonely in a way I haven't felt for many years. The fire washes away the unease and makes the vastness of the forest feel less overwhelming. I can sit here watching the dancing flames, listening to the crackling logs, knowing that everything will be fine.
With a gentle humming the lift chair pulls me upwards towards a sky that's not quite black. The hills below me are lit up at intervals by spotlights that cast cones of an eerie pinkish glow across the landscape. Bare ground covered in withered leaves, dotted here and there by patches of snow. Naked trees with their brown spindly branches, like insectoid fingers stretching towards the darkened sky. Off to the right, across an inky chasm, is a string of lights, presumably illuminating an unseen slope; row of trees silhouetted against their brightness, the light diffusing through the tree tops forming the vague outline of a hill. Beyond that, as far as I can see, nothing but a void. With these surroundings it's strange to think that in just a few minutes, I'll be riding my snowboard down the slope that's somewhere beyond that forested peak in front of me.
I'm walking in nearly complete darkness, only able to navigate thanks to my head lamp. As I come around a bend in the road, there's a gap in line of trees along the right hand side, their black silhouettes dropping away to reveal the view. This is what I had been hoping to find when I ventured out of camp, so stop and turn off the light. In front of me lies the valley, almost not recognizable compared with its daytime self. The night sky, almost but not completely black, is studded with stars. The dark outline of a low hill in the middle distance; spots of light scattered sparsely across it, each little cluster signifying a farmhouse. Behind it, the orange glow of a town. At this distance you can't make out any shapes - it's barely visible in the daylight- but the light radiating skywards marks its location like a beacon. There are thousands of pinpricks of brightness within that diffuse radiance; each one denoting a single streetlight, a single lighted window, or the headlights of car. I don't know if it's an illusion, but from where I'm standing, they seem to be twinkling like distant fireflies. It's funny when you come to think of it, you come out here to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city, but once you're up here, looking down at the city lights from the stillness of the mountain, it's actually quite beautiful.
This beach is unusually steep. I’m standing at the bottom of the hill, right where the coarse black sand meets the ocean; if I turn my head I can barely see over the crest. In the distance to my right, a cliff rises abruptly out of the sand, and off to my left the beach narrows to a point where the dark green hills come crawling down to the water. The slow swell of the Pacific gets bunched up against the steeply rising ground, and as it does a turquoise grey wall of water rises up in front of me. … Read the rest
The rain is drumming on the parasol and the wind blowing through the trees is unusually cold for the season. The lake, just down the slope in front of me, lies flat and gray like a piece of slate, reflecting the dismal sky. The embers in the barbecue glow red, heating me up just enough to keep standing here. The summer shouldn't be cold and wet like this but the sun is conspicuous by its absence. Two steps to the side I would be miserable yet here, in this little pocket of dry warmth, it's strangely cozy; like sitting inside watching the rain through the window but somehow more acute. All I lack now is the typical barbecue beer...perhaps exchanged for a cup of hot chocolate.
The rain is beating down so hard the noise drowns out all other sound. Down below preparations are going on for opening the market just like every morning; trucks of all sizes coming and going, boxes of fruit and vegetables being loaded or offloaded, and men shouting to each other over the droning of engines. Normally the sounds from all this would float up to me where I stand but this night they don't, nothing but the whoosh of the water. On a clear night you could see far from here, the lights of apartments on the other side of the city and the faint outline of distant mountains against the pre dawn sky, but tonight the pouring rain obscures everything, making the world seem small. It's like being in a silent bubble, surrounded by a curtain of water.
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