Early morning and the smells of coffee and sunrise over the mountain called us from camp. Routine becomes a comfort in our small tent on the homestead. There are no modern amenities to really speak of for miles, but I prefer it. I listen as Gregory pulls on his Filson jacket each morn; the warm brush of his course hands moving over the waxed canvas and the crisp snap of the buttons are the only sounds in the tent as he readies for the day. Atop the mountain the air is much cooler than home and our lungs take big gulps of the algid wind. We take Oliver to the quartz mine just up the trail. The ground is a flickering sea of diamonds against the dreary wintered trees and briar surrounding. We stop for a drink of water at a nearby spring soon after carrying our lot of stones and gems back to camp.
We had everything we needed. There was no frivolity. We had things we could depend on and because of that, we could do what we set out to do each day- be it a full day of work, or a hike up the mountain, or something completely and totally unexpected. There's a lot to explore, and I don't plan on doing it timidly. To hell with that.