graphics by Michael Corrado
A cold drift of fog-laden air is pushing through the trees outside my office today. Somewhere a window was left open leaving a chill throughout the building. No one has thought to raise the thermostat and we are complacent in our discomfort. Everyone is going about their business in muted tones with only the trudging cadence of creaking stairs to belie their movements. Today is a work day.
I am reminded of another time when I plodded the snows of Glen Pass in the High Sierra. There too the occasional figure could be seen in the quiet storm, strung out along the trail to the crest a thousand feet above. The footfalls echoed around the bowl to drum the rhythm for all who would pass that way. The oppressive cold and rarified air sapped our reason and will. Only a forgotten purpose drove us on.
This is no unknown country. We know there is a vista beyond and yet another pass beyond that. There are no peaks to master that will give us sight to every corner, no vantage that reveals to us an end. Somewhere, in some swale or on some high pass there is an end, whether we find it by searching or merely tripping over a stubborn root. And so we climb these wretched rocks, wandering, searching, and collecting as many vistas as we can.
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