Sequoia National Park

Like an enormous white blanket the mist moves slowly through the treetops, as if it is being pulled over the forest by hands as collossal as the ancient trees below. At times the air is so thick and damp that the tourist cars crawl forwards like weary beetles on the narrow roads, preceded by murky yellow headlights, and it almost feels as if the forest is on the bottom of a lake. But at other times, after a change in elevation, the mist is reduced to trailing swirls and then just like that it is gone, replaced with crisp air and a sudden stillness.

The Sequoia trees stand in silence, towering over the ground below. There is a type of existence contained in those trees that no human could ever comprehend. The winds and rains of millenia have beaten against them, ancient storms have whipped through their branches, lightening has lashed their weary trunks and countless sunrises have filtered through their foilage.

All around them creatures have come into existence, perched amongst their treetops, clambered up their sides; lived their whole lives and died amongst their roots. And how many sunsets have trimmed their timeworn sillhouettes with an orange glow?

These trees are the passage of time, straining against the weight of the centuries.

Copyright Douglas Fenton 2017