There is nothing more rewarding than sitting by a fire at treeline with one’s son, the night settled in and the temps dropping by tens of degrees behind the night sitters, the day of hiking receding behind the mountain silhouette, the whiskey warm at the back of the throat, and the next day holding promise beyond knowledge. Nothing more satisfying, indeed.
To this flat-lander, going from sea level–no, from six feet above sea level–to 13,500 in twenty-four hours, was a feat of major accomplishment. Add to the equation the loss of oxygen absorption inherent in lungs used (and abused) for fifty-four years and–now–this soft chair six feet above sea level is a most welcome abstraction. But it is an abstraction, this chair and place, and the night in the mountains retains a transcendent lasting reality.
Speaking of transcendence, I have given some consideration to that famous night spent in jail by American Transcendentalist, Henry David Thoreau. Please consider my thoughts: That Famous Night in Jail at The Nervous Breakdown.