Adirondack Mountain Reserve, NY.
The perch is Indian Head. I've done the long slog from way down at the beginning of this valley to the Fish Hawk Cliffs, about half a mile behind me, and the ridge trail to here. Five peaks of the Great Range loom across Lower Ausable Lake, two more above and behind me. I can pick out the watercourses I know so well from up here, the arteries and veins that move the life blood from the extremes at the mountain tops to the heart of the earth, deep into the gorges that close in, and pulse with life and power. It all drains earthward...weather, water, rock, wood, even color--spreading out in alluvial fans on the valley floor, all of it absorbed into the blackness of the lake. I sit awhile, eat something, and think about what has been drained out of me. The pool beneath my feet would fill with the faith, and hope, and love that has been weathered and eroded by human nature. Such a fool to think I could have those things forever, to think my human bonds could be stronger than the bonds that hold this piece of earth together. Every mortal storm depletes us. And if I am not drained yet, it is only because I have so much fartherto go, to return.