Boreas is the Greek God of the North Wind, and perhaps whoever named this river suffered through the winters that were carried southward on its journey to meet the Hudson. I long for that breeze now, sweaty and sticky in the heat of early evening. The Boreas Rover is a rocky corridor here; huge boulders are randomly scattered, with smaller ones migrating into the forest. It leaves you wondering about the forces of creation. This isn’t a popular place, it’s just one I came across long ago, and return to occasionally, as if revisiting an old friend. I’ve found that this is a common thing I do, coming back to familiar haunts. In a nation that has gone woke, hijacked by agenda idealogues, and writhing in the irony of what’s destroyed versus what’s created, maybe I need to reassure myself that some things, some places, haven’t changed. Many have. Some have suffered the onslaught of people, drawn by internet inspired geo-trophyism, and left questionable when or even whether to ever return to them for solitude. I’ve returned to broad vistas, now permanently marred with ridges of marching wind turbines, or the sun glinting off acres of solar arrays, the earth’s landscapes left pitted from the earth movers used to produce the raw materials to make it all. Aesthetics are succumbing to climate fears; how did we come to trust people who claim to know what is good for the planet, and couldn’t care less about wilderness and wildlife. My list diminishes yearly of those that remain unchanged, unloved by but a few, a comfort food for the heart. God willing they will remain hidden, unusable, there to take solace in, from time to time.