Muse and Mist

Well, some say if you don't know what to say, say nothing.

Sound advice.

When it comes to writing though, I say, "Write something."

I've not been writing lately, and if I don't write, the muse seems to drift farther and farther away...like fog on a lake or clouds across mountains. The drift.

One of my favorite spots among the high hills of North Carolina is Roan Mountain. 'Tis a magical escape into nature. Nature, where our origins are. Sad that we escape to it rather than dwell therein.

I have enjoyed many a hike upon the Roan and its accompanying balds. Sometimes the clouds drift over the ridge. My feet glide through the grey and white fog, visibility limited to a few yards. Footing must be precise along the slippery rocks.

On one Roan trek, the cloud lay along the ridge, the cloud's mist rising only to my knees. I felt like a ghost from ages past as my feet and calves parted the mist upon the age-old mountain.

On my hikes, I am often awed by the thought of our ancestors taming, so to speak, the wild.

I climb into a mechanical and electrical device with wheels to arrive at my hiking destination. I wear Gortex designed boots with non-itchy wool socks to protect my feet. I'm equipped with other clothing and gear to help me traverse the elements.

Our ancestors wore cotton and leather and itchy wool. They arrived at their destination via their own two feet or via rides upon the backs of horses. They had to be a hearty lot to survive the wild.

Upon the Roan, I have felt my ancestors' presence...within the wind and the soil, the mist and clouds...an essence that simply is.

Upon the Roan I have felt the eyes of gnomes peering from behind young evergreens. Reality tells me it is the eyes of chipmunks.

But perhaps, it really is gnomes...in costumes.

0803//2010. Grandpup Yerba along the Roan Highlands...
the trail "melting into the horizon" as clouds roll in.

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