On the desert trip I stopped cooking in the evenings. It was too hot to want a hot meal, and packing up a stove at dusk was one more job between me and my sleeping bag.
Cold dinners are not glamorous: tortillas, hard cheese, cold-soaked couscous with olive oil and whatever vegetables survived the day. But they are quick, and they leave the whole golden hour free.
Now I choose camps for the light rather than for shelter, eat sitting on a rock, and watch the ridges go orange, pink and grey before I crawl into the tent.