The cold, wet weather ate away at my enthusiasm. Walking along our dirt roads, which melted into slick highways of dark mud, my mind reached out towards the domestication around us. I couldn’t help but listen to the voice that wants nothing more than to go inside, to have hot tea and dry socks. Maybe there is something to be said about living life on the valley floor, to enjoy the view of spring snow on the mountain through your window, feet still by the fireside.
After some time I get used to having my boots completely encased in their own boot of mud, to patter of rain on my jacket, to the seeping of numbness in my fingers. These sensations quiet my mind. We can survive this endless drizzle easily-enough, it is what we do. For some reason, all of us have felt that calling that continues to beckon us towards the mountains.