Jonathan Neufeld Outdoor adventure photography and mountain life

Ok, here is part 2 of the story I posted earlier this week. If you haven’t read Part 1 you should probably go do that now here.

If you have already read part 1, I have done a little editing to it so you may want to reread it. They are minor edits but I think they make a difference.

Here is part two.

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That night Herman sat in his sparse kitchen staring at the green gelatin. It merely sat there quivering slightly as a listless breeze stirred the curtains. He had sweated all afternoon about the green cubes tucked in his shirt pocket, it was forbidden to take rations from the room. Even now in his small apartment he whipped his head back and forth fearing that they were Watching. The sun sank slowly to oblivion and still Herman stared at the perplexing gelatin, it hadn’t done anything since lunch but Herman couldn’t take his eyes off it.

He dreamed again that night, chasing after the family along the green covered rocks. This time they were singing, but he couldn’t make out the words, if only he could get closer! He broke into a lopsided run his short pudgy legs moving as fast they could. Sweat beaded out against his forehead and he could feel the grey wool shirt clinging to his arms and back. Faster and faster he pumped his short legs pounding them against the soft green covering but no matter what he did the family was always just out of range. The smallest girl turned and beckoned to him, waving him closer. Her long blonde hair waved in the wind, she giggled and skipped away.
Herman woke in a sweat sitting upright in his narrow bed. Strange sensations flooded his body, his breathing was fast and ragged, a harried tempo beat in his ears and chest and he felt alert like never before. Herman threw back the thin covers and stumbled to the closet that held his clothes. The green cubes were still wrapped in the napkin and tucked in the back corner of the closet, right where he had left them earlier that night. Slowly Herman pulled out a white undershirt and held it limp in his left hand. With the gelatin in one hand and the shirt in the other he moved towards the bathroom.

The tin mirror reflected a rough haggard face, unshaven with black circles bagging under the eyes which were wide and frightful. Herman spread the shirt out over the seat of the toilet, mechanically pressing out the wrinkles with his hands. He brought the first cube towards the shirt, hesitated, and then vigorously rubbed the sticky green cube into the pristine white cotton. A green splotch grew into the chest of the shirt. Herman let out a nervous giggle and rubbed the second cube into the shirt creating another green splotch. He laughed out loud and furiously squished the third cube into the shirt, managing to spread it a little more evenly than the first two creating an all over green effect to the front of the shirt with two splotches down the middle. Herman held up the shirt in front of the tin mirror, it was like nothing he had ever seen before; it was colourful and gaudy and pure chaos. The green reminded him of something, the hills of his dreams and the strange singers yes, but something else.
The canister.
He had used the green canister for the woman with the coloured undershirts, it was at least 15 lashes and Herman had been to the lashings in the square, he could see how much it hurt. He had seen how the offenders were stripped to the waist and tied with rough ropes around wrists to a large wooden stake. He could nearly feel the pain as the lash landed on the offenders back and he suddenly saw the bloody dripping of their backs, a crimson rivulet standing out against the grey surroundings. Sweat broke out anew on his forehead, more than anything he didn’t want a lashing, and yet he couldn’t put the shirt down, the chaos was breathtaking.

The early morning was thick with fog as Herman descended the usual steps to the train platform beneath the city. His eyes darted furtively around the subterranean stop and it took every ounce of effort to keep his feet moving forward. Everyone knew, he could tell, he could see it in their eyes, in the way they avoided his looks, in the way the crowd pulsed around him as the train arrived. Herman had had a sleepless night, tossing and turning waiting for the Watchers to break down his door and haul him off in chains. He knew it must happen; he had seen the reports and had even meted out the punishments for people who broke the rules. He ran his hand up over his head across his thinning brown hair stuck to his forehead by the wet morning dew as much as his nervousness.

The doors closed and the train clattered down the tracks, but this morning the sound bellowed in Herman’s ears deafening him and drowning out the usual sighs and snorts of his fellow passengers. The wheels pounded relentlessly against the track and the sound throbbed in his head. The walls of the small crowded train car seemed to shrink in on him pushing the passengers tighter and tighter against his body until the smell was nearly unbearable. He couldn’t breathe, the air had suddenly gone stale and heavy in his mouth tasting of tin, sweat, dust, and fear. Herman raised his head and looked around the car with panicked intensity but no one else seemed to notice, everyone else was sitting or standing facing the front as normal as could be and Herman could hardly breathe. It was starting to feel like one of those mystifying wooden boxes they used to put people before they were covered with dirt, back in the old days. He could even smell the damp earth being thrown on top of him as he lay trapped in the tiny wooden box; it was a hideous putrid smell that choked off his nostrils and filled his throat.

He got off at the next stop, unable to stand the noise and the heat and the smells any longer, he pushed his way towards the door. It was two stops earlier than normal for him and he had to struggle against the flow of people pushing onto the car. They looked at him as if he was mad and Herman’s grey coat flapped behind him as he ran across the deserted platform accentuating the effect. He stumbled up the stairs tripping and tangling himself in his long grey coat emerging to see the first rays of sun rising above the horizon. It was glorious; the golden light filled the street pushing back on the undulating fog and warming him as he stood admiring the colours of orange and yellow. Breathing hard he undid the top button of his grey work shirt and took a slow deep breath as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight.

The streets were nearly empty, the last of the workers were making there way towards the train as Herman pushed against them and stood agape looking up towards the sky. The Watchers knew about the shirt he had defiled, he knew it, could feel it in the core of his being. He could see his name on a slip of paper being slid into a green-topped tube and his own pudgy body tied to the post as he received his sentence of lashings in the city square while an army of people looked on and shook their heads at his folly. Everyone got caught, structure brings order and order keeps chaos restrained, but chaos was beautiful. And why would something so wondrous need to be restrained? ‘Because order was necessity, without order we are no better than animals’ he told himself.

Herman repeated this to himself as he ran, his soft legs pounding the street and the blood pounding in his ears. His legs burned, his back and sides felt about to split, and his throat burned with the effort but he ran all the way back to his building and all the way up the stairs. He stood panting in front the closet door his breathing coming in ragged gasps, his grey work shirt pulled out and his pants wrinkled and both stained with the exertion of the run. Was the green shirt still there? Had the Watchers found it? Maybe he could just get rid of it, he told himself, throw away this stained shirt and get a new one somehow, carry on like it never happened. ‘That’s all it is’ he told himself, stained and ruined and nothing more, ‘it’s nothing beautiful or wondrous it is a shirt that is ruined’. He flung the door open and dove into the back of the closet coming up triumphantly with the splotchy green shirt clenched tightly in his right hand. He stood back and held the shirt out before him, it was more than an undershirt with green gelatin smeared into it and sweat stains under the arms. It was a canvas and he was Salvador Dali, he was Picasso or Monet. Herman watched the green swirl in on itself and out again, he saw the two patches, just off center and marvelled at their simplistic complication.

Standing there with his chest heaving and his head pounding as the blood raced through his body like never before, there with his eyes open and his senses filled he held the shirt from the recesses of the closet and he knew it wasn’t true. Chaos was beautiful. Chaos was wonderful. Chaos was breathtaking.

All right, contrary to what I said earlier it turned out to be quite a nice day. I went to Clifty park on the east side of the city. While trying to find the park I drove by it, we dont’ have a very good map of the city, and took a nice spin the country side. It was quite nice, and with the clouds rolling off it was even nicer. Since I have currently discovered the ability to post pictures I am going to treat you to a few pictures from Clifty Park. I hope the weekend was nice wherever you are and I hope you had a good Easter.

Monday morning, bright and early. Well I guess it isn’t either bright or early, and as proof of this here are some pictures from my hotel window.

It rained lots last night, huge dumps of water sheeting from the sky. Today the river was swollen and brown and looked angry; it had overflowed the banks and was moving into the are destroyed by the flood in the fall. If we get any more rain I may have to buy a boat!

The guys did go flying today, in a different area about 140mi north of here. It would be good to actually get something done, we haven’t flown a single day since we got to Indiana.

I find science fiction stories quite compelling. Actually, let me rephrase that; I find well done sci-fi quite compelling. That being said, I also tend to really enjoy bad sci-fi. There is something about a low budget, poorly scripted, badly acted turd of a movie that is amazingly entertaining (see Yor Hunter from the future). With this in mind I spent the entire evening watching the Sci-Fi Channel. First up was Army of Darkness, a classic I had seen before. Second up was a new Bruce Campbell one Alien Apocalypse and third was Alien Cargo. The second was a lot like the first, corny, witty, predictable, badly acted but incredibly entertaining. The third however was excellent.

Alien Cargo was an excellent movie, go ahead and scoff at the title, I did, but it turned out to be really well done. It starts with a basic premise, the two main characters are awoken from cryo-stasis or hyper-sleep by the computer and the people on the shift before them are no where to be found. The ship is a mess and the computer informs them that they are 98% out of fuel and nowhere near a destination. The plot progresses from here as the characters probe into the mystery and inevitably find their colleagues dead; as we knew they must be. This is a movie with a corny title and a fairly standard sci-fi theme with an excellently developed plot, and acting to match. While I won’t give it away the ending isn’t the usual Hollywood drivel and one can really feel a connection with the main characters. So, if you are in the mood for some good “bad sci-fi” I would highly recommend Alien Cargo; “We have met the enemy and it is us”.

First off: Now with pictures!

Today we went up to Indianapolis to see the Indy 500 racetrack, or as people in the know call it “The Brickyard.” The course was built in 1909 to serve as a testing ground for new automobiles as well as a racing circuit. The name comes from the original paving which at the time consisted of 3.2 million bricks. Can you imagine driving 100miles in hour in 1909 technology on a brick road, wow! I am not a huge racing fan, but it is the sort of thing that one really had to see when one is this close at hand, and it was quite impressive. We got to take a tour bus out on the track itself while a tape narrated and shared with us fun facts about the Indy 500 (see above: Number of Bricks). Inside the museum was most of the winning cars from the very first one (held in 1911) right up to the most recent winners; it was really neat to see the evolution of the technology as the cars went along.

We also went for a walk in downtown Indy (as it is called by the locals, or so I am assuming because once when I was a kid in a hotel pool I heard some other kids call it that, they said they were from Indy and me being intentinally obtuse said You’re from India!? And they said no, Indy. Or maybe it was their grandmother that was from Indy, I don’t really remember) which was nice, though a little sketchy. It is a weird dichotomy of new and old buildings. We did wander across a spectacular Civil War monument though, as seen below.

Right now Army of Darkness is on and I think I’ll watch that and work on part two of the story I started.

Here is part one of something I was working on tonight. It is still the first draft and mostly unedited, but letme know what you think anyway.

The grey clouds were low and shrouded the buildings like wet blankets hung to dry. Herman walked to work and nearly had to brush aside the fog and cloud as he made his way down Thurman Street. He was short and stocky, a little thick around the waist with scraggly thin hair and wire frame glasses that were slightly askew on his bulbous nose. A finger roamed around his left nostril and he started down the stairs to the train station.

The trains were old metal tubes that clattered through subterranean caverns snaking beneath the city. Herman was pulled forward by the surge of people onto the 7:15 train and with a cloud of diesel smoke and the hideous screech of metal on metal the crowd was off. The train was packed with people, all managing to avoid the eyes of the other morning riders though Herman as certain he was pressed against at least three people he didn’t know. Next stop, doors open, people crowd on and doors close. The smell of people in a tight space intensified and brought to mind Herman’s 13th year dances. They were dismal forced affairs, with boys and girls thrown together in a large wooden-floored room the music throbbing, stale body odours, and everyone looking uncomfortable. In fact, there was more than the smell in common.

Herman scanned the tattoo on his wrist and the steel security door swung open admitting him to the gloomy depths of Tower 382. He pushed his glasses up and trudged up the stairs at his Tower of Employment, it was Tower 382 and Herman was assigned desk 149 on floor 16; the desks next to him were assigned to Hank, Henry and Harriet. He sat down in the grey wooden chair and pulled the single pencil out of the top drawer on the right hand side of his desk and wrote his name and the time on a piece of paper which was whisked away by a pneumatic tube. Herman could hear the whoosh of Hank’s and Harriet’s tubes, followed shortly by Henry’s. Good old Henry, always reliably late, he was sure to receive a reprimand for that. Structure was highly valued and any deviation from structure resulted in immediate and severe punishment, it was the only way to keep order.

Herman worked in the Department of Justice and Truth and made sure that order and structure were preserved within the city. He sat at his desk and looked through the mornings papers, a lady caught with coloured undershirts, a man teaching his children forbidden words, an entire family caught trying to leave the city. Herman shook his head and wondered at the foolishness of these people who broke the rules, ‘really they should know better’ he thought to himself, ‘everyone gets caught; besides we all know that structure is the only way to maintain order and without order we are no better than animals.’ From the left drawer Herman withdrew one red tipped canister, one blue tipped canister and one green tipped canister. He rolled the report of the father teaching his children against the will of the city and slid it into the blue canister. The children would be removed from that home and re-assigned to a different family unit that was more suitable; the man would go for re-education which would bring him back into line. Into the green one he slipped the report of the lady, she would receive nothing more than a lashing. Herman looked at the report of the fleeing family and then at the red-tipped canister. It wasn’t very often that he had to use the red-canister and he didn’t like it when those occasions arose. It wasn’t that he was squeamish or afraid to do his duty, it just seemed such a waste to execute the whole family. With a sigh he rolled the report into an even cylinder and slid it into the red-tipped canister. ‘Without structure there is chaos and rules must be maintained to have order’ he reminded himself.

Herman continued on rolling and stuffing conclusions into blue and green-tipped canisters with only the occasional sigh and red-tipped canister until the midday buzzer sounded.
“First shift ready for mid-day rations” said a confident albeit disembodied voice from an overhead speaker. In perfect unison Herman, Henry, Harriet and Hank all slid their wooden chairs back from their desks and stood up, turned 180 degrees to the right and strode down the hallway to the Rations Room. They were joined by the other workers on First Shift and everyone filed silently down the grey hallway and turned left into the Rations Room. The room was square with horizontal metal rails on the left-hand wall along which Herman slid his white ration tray. The cooks on the other side of the mini glass wall doled out portions as people filed past, one bun, one bowl of stew, one serving of steamed cauliflower and three incongruous cubes of green gelatin; each into their own little location with tiny walls dividing them. Herman followed the file of people to the rows of tables and took the first available seat, right next to the person in front of him. Herman ate his midday rations and ruminated on the people around him, he couldn’t help wondering if one of them was capable of rule breaking. Was the woman next to him wearing a pink undershirt instead of the regulation white? Was the man across from him thinking about the days before the revolution? Did the man at the next table sing Beethoven during his morning cleansing? Herman shook his head and dismissed the thoughts, they were a hazard of his work he told himself, ‘I only think of breaking the rules because I know which rules to break, and the consequences. Besides, most people didn’t know who Beethoven was anymore nor Bach or Tchaikovsky for that matter, and I only do because I have to in order to enforce the rules’. Herman was mopping the last of the stew out of the metal bowl with the top of the bun, like everyone else around him he noted, when the one minute warning buzzer sounded. ‘Waste is a product of chaos’ he repeated in his mind, and popped the gelatin cubes into his mouth.

On the train ride home Herman couldn’t help thinking about the family he had red-capsuled that day. It wasn’t like they were the first ones he had sentenced to death or even the only ones that day but for some reason he couldn’t get them out of his mind. ‘Were even the children guilty? Was it possible that the parents had put them up to it? It doesn’t matter’ he told himself, ‘the Watchers said they are all guilty.’

He had dreams that night about a woman named Maria leading a band of people on a narrow pathway along rocks piled so high they pushed against the blue of the sky. The rocks were covered with green trees and shrubs blooming into bright violets and oranges and the very tops were wreathed in a glorious white mantle. The people carried strange bags on their backs and every time Herman tried to get closer to them they moved away along the dirt path.

* * * *

The train clattered down the tracks, next stop, doors open, people crowd on and doors close. Herman felt the familiar press of unfamiliar bodies and the accompanying smell that lingered on his dark wool shirt all day. He scanned his wrist and trudged up the stairs to floor 16 of tower 382 and with a nod to Hank and Harriet sat down at desk 149. He wrote his name and the time on a piece of paper and a familiar whoosh stole it away. The stack of papers was exactly the same height it was yesterday and Herman started working though it. A child starting a fight a school, green canister; a girl reading Hemmingway, green canister; a man preaching nonsense about someone looking down from the clouds, blue canister; blue, green, blue, red, and on and on. Almost mechanically he slid papers into canisters and they whooshed away to be carried out against those who favoured chaos over order; rules as the foundation cannot be compromised and those that do must be taught to see why.
“First shift ready for mid-day rations” said the voice from the speaker and Herman, Henry, Harriet and Hank slid back from their desks turned 180 degrees to the right and filed down the hall towards the Rations Room. Herman slid the metal tray along the metal runners and each little hole in the tray received it’s received its ration of food, bun, bowl of stew, serving of cauliflower and the incongruous cubes of green gelatin. Before his eyes the green cubes melted and formed into tiny pyramids covered with tiny green trees and meadows filled with flowers and a train of people with bags.

A sweat broke out on Herman’s forehead as he watched the tall dark haired person pick up the smallest one and spin her around before setting her down and watching her run along towards the others in the group. He tore his eyes away from the amazing spectre and looked furiously around the room to see if anyone else had noticed. He gripped the edges of the metal tray so hard it started to shake and some stew slipped up over the edge of the bowl and onto the tray. The man next to him, a small spindly fellow with a thick mane of blonde hair looked over at him and glared before setting back on his lunch. Herman looked back at the gelatin and the family, he was sure now that it was a family, though he didn’t know why and certainly had never seen so large a family. They were gone replaced by ordinary common green gelatin. He hurriedly slurped down the stew and wiped his bowl as the one minute buzzer sounded. With a surreptitious glance around the room he wrapped the green gelatin in the paper napkin and stuffed it in the pocket of his wool shirt and returned to work.

I think I have insomnia. Ok, not really, but tonight I went to bed at 11:30 and an hour later woke up energetic and cheery like I had just had a great nap, which I suppose I did. Point being, it is now 2am here and I can’t seem to get to sleep. Not exactly thrilling stuff maybe, but you are reading this volunatarily!

It has been rainy here in Columbus Indiana for the last two days. In fact its been bad weather ever since we got here, which is really ironic considering the rush people were in to get us here. Ah well, such is life, and Mobile AL isn’t any better really. So what have I been up to? Not a whole lot I’ll admit. There is a river across the highway from where we are and a pathway that runs parallel to it and I went for a nice long walk along it the other day. It is kind of funny actually, there is almost no elevation differences anywhere in this city so they actually built an Observation Tower that goes up about 3-4 stories so people can look out across the city. Columbus is the “Archetechtural Capital of the Midwest” and there are a few neat buildings here. Fancy suspension bridges, large pointy churches and all manner of things. Even the residental places are quite nice, lots of field stone and brick, really well done. So far it is one of the nicest US cioties I have been in: small around 50,000 people, lots of trees and even the air smells reasonably decent.

Uhm, thats about all I guess, I’m gonna go watch the CSI marathon and then go for a walk in the rain.

Yes indeed, Indiana. There was a rumour yesterday that we might head back to Calgary since our gyro mount was broken and we needed a new one. Turns out they had a spare in Denver so we went there this morning instead, and then to Indiana. The trip from Mobile to Denver was looooong, we had an 85 knot headwind the whooole way. It would have been a little nicer if I’d had more than three hours of sleep last night, the people banging on my door at 2am didnt’ help at all!! If I recal the conversation went like this:
Door: Bang bang bang
Me: (stumbly and blurry eyed) move around the room and turn on a light while contemplating the broken peep hole
Door: Bang bang bang
Me: (confused) Who is it?
Girl: (angry) It’s me!!
Me: I think you have the wrong room
Girl: (still angry) No I don’t!!
Me: Uh, yeah, you do
Girl: (storms away)
Door: (that was weird, I’m just a door)

So there ya go, another rare glimpse into my wacky motel lifestyle (c: Tonights motel has a soggy balcony and musty smells. Tomorrow we’ll find something different, maybe not better, but different. Actually, probably better…

It’s been a while since my last update and I suppose a few things have happened since then. I went to see the USS Alabama, inside and out this time. It was a lot like the USS North Carolina that I saw while in, you guessed it, North Carolina. They also had a WWII submarine on display which was amazing in its compactness. They said it had a compliment of 65 enlisted men and 7 officers, though I don’t know how they found room for all of them onboard, I guess that explains why they had bunks in the engine room and the torpedo bays. The doors between the bulkheads were maybe three feet tall, and the ceilings were extremely short, I banged my head at least twice. I don’t really consider myself to be claustrophobic at all but I was really happy to get out of there and into the light mist that started to rain down whilst we explored the metal sausage.

We also visited the Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola Florida, which was not as I had reported earlier only 30min away, it was closer to 75. Not much to tell really, lots of old aircraft and the home of the Blue Angels, the US equivalent of the Snowbirds. The real story was on the way home, we drove down an area called the Gulf Shores from FL into AL and witnessed the destruction from the last set of hurricanes that tore through here. To say it was spectacular and heartbreaking is to understate it by a long shot. There were buildings on stilts with the centers caved in, or toppled flat on their sides; there were restaurants with all the glass missing and the walls crumbling; a sporting goods store with the front ripped away and all the debris piled against the back wall of an empty husk. There were homes destroyed and lives shattered, broken buildings next to perfect ones and miles upon miles of beach torn up. I remember seeing all the images on TV and in the papers as the events were unfolding and registering it and then dismissing it, but being here and seeing it contrasted against the spectacular Gulf Coast sunset was an eye opener.

I also played a round of golf the other day at the top rated par 3 course in the US. With club rentals, balls, tees and green fee the total came to $30 which seemed very fair to me. I got a few tips from one of the guys here, the only one that golfs really, and my swing improved greatly both on the range and the course. Sure I had my share of 3-over-par holes and spent some time hunting balls in the swamps but it was a great time nonetheless. Down here see they don’t do water traps, they just skip the inevitable middle step and put in swamp right away. If you have never searched for a lost golf ball in an Alabama swamp let me give you some advice, don’t. They sell more at the pro shop, and if you get the “pre-played” balls they are even relatively cheap; also they sell them by the dozen so if you lose a few its no biggie right?

I heard back from the Calgary SAR people; turns out I didn’t get accepted onto the team for this year. I was worried about making it back for the Apr 21^st start date of training and perhaps in a moment of foolish honesty told them so. Seems this was the major reason I didn’t get accepted. With over 100 applicants for 30 volunteer positions I guess it is no wonder they couldn’t/didn’t accept someone who couldn’t guarantee being around. In fact I am not really sure how much I will be home this summer. It was starting to look like I wouldn’t have to be out here too long but I am getting the feeling that “not too long” means “all summer” since there isn’t anyone to swap me out and no new software in place. I guess I don’t really mind too much though, as long as I get the time eventually it should all work out right? I was really hoping to be home though to do lots of hiking and camping and biking in the fitful season we call summer. When I am out here I feel like everything gets set in a holding pattern, life just pausing and waiting for me to pick it up when I get home. Though why should it feel that way? It’s not as if time itself stops and life does carry on around me. Things still happen at home the way they would were I there and time still slides forward. Perhaps I am just feeling whiney tonight though (c:

The other night I talked to a cousin of mine that I haven’t talked to in a long time. Cousin may not be the right word, for my mother’s father’s brother’s son’s daughter. Haha if that isn’t a little confusing I don’t know what is, though I know at least a few people will know whom I mean. It was really good to talk to her, and thinking about it now I think the last time we talked was the summer of 2000 when I was living in Winnipeg. Wow, lots to catch up on for sure! See there is one positive aspect of this job, if not for my going away who’s to say we would have talked?

I ran out of books the other day and it was a very strange feeling for me, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I find reading is an amazing thing for me, something that can consume me so totally I barely notice the passing time. I went to the store and got a few more books, I don’t seem to be able to buy fewer than three at a time, and in less than 13 hours, including sleep time, I had finished the first of them ( a mere 471 pages). Anyway I won’t really get into it but if you haven’t picked up a book lately may I suggest you do? [PS: PJ did you ever get Michael Valentine Smith out of the hospital?] The inevitable endgame of this voracious reading is that I tend to haul a library around with me, right now I am contemplating getting an additional bag just for the books. I know you would say: “Jon, why not unburden yourself of these books at a used bookstore and thus exhaust less of your capital and baggage space on these books you consume so rapidly?” and my simple answer is, I can’t. I don’t consider myself one that holds on to too many extra or sentimental items but I really do enjoy collecting books and building up a library.

“Hills of forest green
Where the mountains touch the sky a dream come true
I’ll live there till I die…”

I still want to do a road trip to the North this year; Yukon, NWT, Alaska I would love to go there for a month or so and experience it in all its glory and misery since I am sure both occur at times; the former comprised of soaring mountains wild animals and solitude, the latter of bugs, swamp and loneliness. I would love to hear from anyone who has been up there and their experiences.

“It’s a dangerous business going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.’”

Fits well with my other favourite from the same soure:

Not all that is gold glitters…
Not all those that wander are lost…