The Blip Decision

The photo that tells a story, or the pretty picture?
On the way to Yosemite, past Mariposa, the road drops in a steep curve to the Merced River. These hills are usually green, or brown, depending on the season, but here they are the burnt hills of the recent Briceburg Fire. A stark view, and then suddenly there is a helicopter overhead, carrying a log out over the canyon, dropping down, down, down there, where a couple of tiny blue utility trucks wait. At first I think they are removing fire-damaged trees from near the road, but that makes little sense. I decide they are carrying new poles down into the canyon to restring damaged wires. Either way it is quite a show, like watching the workmen the other day moving a giant steel beam at a construction site near home. How can it possibly work?

But this helicopter flies down into the canyon, a tiny dot placing its cargo precisely, then flies black up to the highway. No place for us to stop and figure it out. Keep going past these brown scorched devastated hills. Can’t imagine them covered in fire.

And the pretty picture—in the Extras, a view from the bridge near our campsite, looking downstream to Yosemite Falls, which has no water right now. Dry. The circle of yellow leaves is dramatic—the most color I’ll probably get to see this year. So there is a story here too, but a less dramatic one. This view holds all the times we’ve camped here, all the time on this bridge watching the sunsets, listening to the river, observing the deer crossing in an orderly line. Here’s where I found the flicker feather, and there was a bear cub up the road just past the stables. We had the best campsite one year, right there on the water—you could see Half Dome from the breakfast table. So, a story, but one for me, in my heart.