We’re camped at a place called Graves Creek. It’s midnight. The lantern glow and diminishing campfire flames, the nearby rush of river with rising shadows of mountains I can barely discern above silhouetted tree tops, and the oxygen-rich air of this rain-forest valley conspire to keep me awake by offering me an experience too wonderful to miss should I sleep.
Fall and winter equate to Turbulent times, but not just this year. No. Throughout history.
I spent a few hours this evening going through a box containing memories: . . .