We're obsessed with roads, especially those a little off the beaten path. Their romanticism is seductive. We have written poems about them, sang melodies, and painted them on canvass. Splashed them on the silver screen. I guess a road or path is an apt metaphor for the grand transmigration of our souls through this wild spinning earth. Heavy stuff, ain't it? Don't sweat it. You're here on this road now. There are plants and flowers waving hello. The dirt is crunchy under your feet. Rocks are strewn here and there along the way. An obstacle now and then. Maybe even a naughty bear hiding in the bushes waiting to scare the wits out of you in spite of the jingling and jangling of your bear-bell hanging from the loop on your backpack. One. Footstep. After. Another. Even with a heavy load. If you were clever and bought yourself some walking poles then you're now looking mighty pretty packing like a quadruped.
Two hours until we reach camp. What will it look like? What a rush not to know what your home will look like until a few hours from now. We move on. I see the sweat on your brow. The wind at your back. The sun shimmers all around us and bathes us in its radiant light. Is that a waterfall? Energy, little flower, is eternal delight.