I make landfall here every so often. Trip’s last leg is an hour’s toxin-purging travel by car uphill. With Pine aroma wafting in the air, I bounce back, away from sensory onslaught and humdrum of metro-life. The lodge where I stay sits on a grassy knoll overlooking a valley that drops steeply away into a ravine. This is where I love to spread my wings. The freedom to park anywhere along the paths wound around the haunting hills, and jot down impressions, unnoticed, with hardly any care in the world. When it’s time to go downhill again, my spirit toboggans.
Notes from the Mountainside
