AISLING MURRAY

I’m woken up in the predawn by barking seals as fishermen pull their haul home. The fog begins to lift over the pacific as the first rays of sun filter through, adding a light softness to everything. This is my first time out west in Northern California, 2010.

Hiking among the tallest trees in the world, one feels small almost invisible. It’s quiet except for my breath and the sound of my boots hitting the wet spongy trails. In the distance, where I’m going is the roar of the Pacific.

My face is wet not from sweat but from the mist. Everything has a layer of wetness.I land on the golden sandy beach just as the fog is coming in. It’s rutting season and Roosevelt elk can be heard but not seen.