Thomas Doty – Storyteller


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At the Mount Ashland Campground

Sunday evening at the Mount Ashland Campground. The sun slants long shadows across the granite slopes of the mountain, and hikers, mountain bikers and weekend campers drive down the road in a trail of dust that balls into a cloud, then thins into nothing in the evening wind.

The rattle of cars dies away, and the wind picks up the early songs of nightbirds, the buzzing of mosquitoes. It's so suddenly still that I can almost hear the sun set, can almost hear the stars spark on in the clear depths of the alpine sky.

With darkness the wind dies. Granite blurs into shadows. Quiet settles onto the mountain like the faint beginnings of a dream.