Full Moon Rising Over the Valley of the Elk

With the expectation of two gorgeous days on tap, my husband and I headed into the Quehanna Wild Area for an overnight backpacking trip.

Last fall, we had established a new campsite in a pine woods in Quehanna, a wilderness area where we have been camping and hiking for many years. A short walk away is a rock overlooking a small stream that meanders through a meadow and down through some large rocky outcrops. One side of the creek is all pine; the other mostly tamarack.

I admit it was so nice and sunny Friday afternoon that I took off my shoes and socks and waded in that stream; the water was clean and cold and refreshing.

Early on a cold and frosty morning in October, while sitting on the rock overlooking the stream, my husband (I was still in my tent) watched four majestic bull elk walk down the hill, through the pines, across the stream, and up into the tamaracks on the other side. They moved silently as ghosts, and were gone in seconds. Ever since, we have thought of and talked about this place as the Valley of the Elk.

My husband camped at this campsite a few weeks ago without me and brought me home an unusual gift from the woods: a deer antler, which he found in the spot where I usually pitch my tent. "Here," he said, giving me the antler, "this was meant for you." (One of these days I intend to photograph it: bony and gnarly, its silhouette somewhat resembles a tree.)

Friday evening, we sat on the rock as the temperatures dropped, watching the evening unfold throughout the valley and - oh, the sweet vestiges of civilization - sipping hot mocha coffees my husband had brought in a thermos as a surprise.

We didn't see any elk, but we did see another delightful sight: the golden full moon rising over the trees, the tree branches creating a lace effect over the moon. (Even the moon, it seems, decided to put on a bit of lace finery on Easter weekend.)

You might consider this photo a companion piece to "Singing Up the Sun," the photo of the sun rising through the tree branches on March 21, only sans singing bird(s) and nest.