Evening atop the Lookout
I sat atop that cabin, just taking in the views, for hours. Looking South, where I once lived. Looking NW (photo) at the chain of the Long Trail.
Weird how time flows. Maybe our watches tell us it is a constant stream, but the mind only takes slices to keep, or so it seems. Snapshots of a walk or a memory of a tree, a car, a dog, a love. Slices. Nothing mroe for me but slices.
East of here are the Whites. They stand out from my beloved Virginia horizon, where the mountains melt into one another. These do, as well, but their contours are jagged, a rugged difference to our Silurian sandstone and lime.
Quiet here - a few crickets from this vantage. And far below within the trees come sounds of engines. They are far-off, muffled by the distance. Occasionally, I get the feeling this stew of sensations could go on forever - that I could sit in this aluminum lawn chair on a northerly-facing porch of someone else's private cabin - and I could be swallowed by the magnitude of the beauty.
There were several times today the human noises stopped, and the natural onces diminished to quiet. Almost dead silence in the forest. No wind in the canopy, no stream nearby, no bugs singing for love or territory. Nada, save the sense of my heartbeat and breath. This magic cannot be bottled or smoked, or stored away in some rich man's abode. This magic occurs when it's earned - almost 1700 miles of sweat, fun, pain, food and all that came with THAT - before my ears heard the nothing: what a sound.
I spoke with M and D last night. Had a beer in me, but wanted to hear their voices. Spoke about sending the Philipps a card, how I had dedicated walking in Vermont to Russ. They thought it a good idea to write.
Frightwig is coming. I can hear his cadence, and I'm not to be alone tonight. I don't mind his - or any company. But tonight would have been nice alone. I need to hike in a void.