" So I was... comin down the trail, and a city slick come
along on a bie-seecle... an he stopped... ta look at me
like he aint seen nothing like.... before... nor since...
I says, very polite... "if you could kindly tell me what
day of the week it is I would really be glad... " ... Then he
kinda snickered...and said..." Well, I suppose you want 
to know what time it is .... DAY TIME...".... an its mornin
cause the sun is over head... whar, in the evenin its
goin ta the west.... over the mountins thar...."




Mountains... have a slow, deep conciousness through 
spans of geologic, time... Their voice is a kind of
vibration... below the range of a human ear... Yet,... in
the language of dreams.l... this can be heard.... by those 
who may listen. This advice, this magic , this song...
can leave us forever, change.

Across from Spillamacheen, in the mountains of British
Columbia, Canada... today.


Younger mountains. Your fortune in many ways. Rough and jagged. I was brought up in the Adirondacks, sometimes said to be the oldest mountains in the world. Curved, rounded, and ancient.. Yet there also are earthquakes.

Mountains  around one's life have deep and penetrating presence for those who get to be part of them. Those and us myriads of other beings. All in time's flow, all in wyrd.

I grew up in the mountains...they get in bones...wherever i tramp...i always wander home. I move from my beloved mountains. I look for answers and adventure. But they are always home. I hear them. I love them. They welcome me home.