His father, whom he had lost—who had lost him, as well—and his mother, who ignored him. The peace and self-assurance of childish ignorance, or perhaps it was enlightenment; he didn't care.

By five-thirty, Edward had carried the last of his equipment from the Curry Village parking lot to the tent cabin he had reserved (needlessly) three weeks before. He checked out the cabin, a raised wooden platform covered with oft-patched white canvas, placed in isolation in the middle of trees close to the talus slope of Glacier Point. The cabin's single light bulb gave sufficient if not bright light, and the two army-blanketed metal-frame beds were in good repair and comfortable.

He followed the road past the Curry Village shops and over a stone bridge and then crossed the meadow. A red-winged blackbird in a nearby bush took exception to his presence. He grinned and tried to chirp back in a friendly manner, but the bird would have none of his overtures. That didn't matter; he knew he belonged there as much as the bird.

From the middle of a meadow, surrounded by tussocks of grass, he rotated to survey his new world. The valley was dark and quiet; the rich, deep blue evening sky hovered on motionless air. He heard the distant echoes of people laughing and talking, their voices bouncing from the granite walls of Glacier Point, Sentinel Rock, and the Royal Arches across the valley. At the base of the Royal Arches he could make out the lights of the Ahwanee resort hotel. To the west a few hundred yards, a few campfires and electric lights revealed the extent of Yosemite Village.

He and his parents had lodged the last night of their journey in the Ahwanee, after spending a week in the tent cabins. He was still debating whether he would do that when the end approached.

Sublime peace.

How would the people of the world fare if all could spend their lives in this kind of beauty? If humans were rare enough that almost any meeting was precious?

He turned on his flashlight and shone it ahead as he returned to the tent cabins. On a flat-topped granite boulder just down the slope from his cabin, he laid out the Coleman stove and a pot of water and fixed a quick supper of ramen soup, throwing an onion and a hot dog in with the noodles.

He walked in darkness to the showers, wearing only an off-white knee-length terry-cloth robe, shaving kit in hand. A Steller's jay hopped along behind him, watching closely for dropped crumbs. "It's dark," he told the bird. "Go to sleep. I've eaten already. Where were you? No food now." The bird persisted, however; it knew humans were liars.