At eighty-five miles an hour, around two or three in the morning, alone on a tattered Maine highway heading North, the human spirit is at one of its highest points. I dare to suggest that the only higher virtues of mankind are to take up an ascent, and to wander alone through the pavement and dirt. I hope to pass on early (or rather, just on time), and to do so very much above sea level and just below the heavens. Those northern passages scrawl along the green and tan of the northeastern map I carry in my back jean pocket, baring the free and the unbridled as art. They lead outward, and inward – away from Massachusetts and towards my bare hands and soul. That is where hope lies for each individual, the worn and beat red palm only fit to grip the strap of a pack, the direction of a steering wheel, or the jug of a cliff face.
Tires or shoes, may either be the vessel in which you reign as Nemo across the trails that mountains grace.