And twilight falls

This is the time of year when all things know that all things will end - except mankind, that is, which still thinks itself invincible because of its imagined superiority. People call themselves "Homo Deus", because they invented a new game of hide and seek, each one respectively and on their very own, and there they dominate the rules. But the rules are not made by man.

These people are highly intelligent. And incurably insane. They don´t know anything anymore about the simple joy of harvest. Their joys are complex and ever more complicated. It is not sin, for there is no such thing as sin, in which they indulge. But the complexity of their pleasures falls back upon them. They yearn for simplicity and do not know where to find it.

I do not know how to put it in words, exactly, that is. The more time I spend in the woods, the harder I find it to tell it to humans. I am not rich, far from that, and time was when I had issues with that. In fact, I am poor. But when I find an apple by the trailside, and some walnuts, and then I sit on a stump with a cuppa tree, this is like a feast to me.

Trees care for each other. It has now been scientifically proven that they communicate with each other via mushroom networks and nutritional exchange. This communication is complex and alien to man. And we can of course make our measurements and calculate our economic benefit from that knowledge... but we will not understand.

Maybe you can feel it. Maybe not. Either which way, any words would be futile.

I think I can feel it, sometimes. Something great moving through the woods, something which I would call peaceful and serene, but that does not do it justice. It uses no words, and words therefore are no use in describing it. It has no body, but I could tell a great many tales about the bodies it had through time.

Sometimes I think it now has mine, and lives in my heart and my soul and my spirit, and it feels good.

This is a strange time. We experience the fall of the kingdom of man, and we will be bereft of all we cherished so dearly... but we do not want to hear. They do not want to hear, because I listened, and I learned.

Ancient trees told me their tales, and I should say that if we will still have a chance, it lies therein.

A dark season it is. It is the realm of the holly king, of the twilight and the cold, cold nights of winter. Things we thought lifeless spring to life, and the living things that were so vibrant in spring go to their sleep.

Dark things instead come out, the monsters of the mind and of the tales. But that is not all there is.

The moon shines more brightly, or so it seems, but that is not all there is.

It is the season of stealthy walks through the thicket-but that is not all there is.

For it is also the season of the tales, huddled around a fire or the oven, of hot tea and cocoa and what goodness you can afford. It is the season of the dark, that much is true. But it is in a dark room that the candles shine more brightly. And even while dark things of the mind come up to the surface, so do the lighter and brighter tales. Of Tomte and troll, of Chrismas or whatever you call it.

And it is in the darkest hour of the darkest night that the light is born anew. This is the message of this season.

That twilight green

 Sometimes the voice inside is crying. It is crying madly. It is screaming and writhing and yelling "Enough!"

Lost in a world gone mad, I sometimes need to see something that is cruel, but true, wild, but sane. It is the forest that calls me. There is a lot to say, and to sing, and to think, and yet words seldom do it justice. Either you can feel it, and then my words or songs would be futile, or you cannot feel it, and it would be even more futile to rant about it. It is the forest that calls me, in its wintery desolation, in spring and in summer, but in the cold autumn rain no less. Maybe the voice is even stronger then, and autumn is the season where I want to wander, and wander alone.

 Those ancient hills lay unfathomed even under a leaden sky, and even if there are fireroads hacking through its landscape, and harvester vehicles spill their noise and poison through the open forest... alone at last, and free from the ruckus and gibberish that man makes to date, all crying and howling "I AM! LOOK! I AM!" at no one and nothing in particular, getting into a mad frenzy. Sometimes I think that they all at once realized that no Mammonism can buy them out of their mortality and that they, looking at their own, ugly souls in all their naked distortion, simply got mad.

Now I am not saying that I am not mad. But I, for one, know that as a fact. I am a lunatic and far from sanity. I am broken, but I believe that there also is some beauty to it. I am no better than average Joe, but I have learned to pick up the fairy gold. You need an open hand for that, a hand that does not want to close over a sunbeam, and you need a bit of craziness to use it to sew yourself a cloak of golden light-or of twilight.

For I am a wanderer on dangerous paths, and I need  a cloak of murk to hide beneath... I need moonbeams and shadow, I need green and the colour and scent of the autumn soil to clothe myself in winter.

 Over the hills I went, and strolled through silent, murky forests, along those roads, towards the hilltop. I met no one but my soul, I heard no voice but silence.

 Like a crevice the spruce and fir, swaying in a gentle breeze, led me further up the hill and deep, deep down into the secret.

 The birch, finest hair and grey skin, stood there, breathing slower, and the floor was trimmed with sparkling gold. They say there´s a bucket of elf shit at the end of the rainbow... but the trees tell me otherwise.

 The oak, still bearing its golden leaves, was standing guard at the gates of the secret.

 Query: What is it, that secret of twigs and branches intertwined? What is it that is hemmed with twilight?

 It is a feeling hovering, not intelligible in an everyday mindset, hovering above the crumbling ruins of the haughtiness of man, ivy-strangled, and moss-entangled. It is a feeling alien to man, or even beast, while beasts still live closer to it.

 To the ruin on top of the hill I came and explored the shadows of rock and moss, of rotten timber and fallen tiles. To the top of the hill I came and explored that feeling of rock and rotten timber and twilight and moss and strangling ivy. There is a secret hidden inside that feeling. There is that cloak of twilight hidden inside the secret.

 There is a tree that forever grows and prospers, a tree of light, a vision of white and green. A tree.

 There is a tree, and its leaves are lights and moonbeams. A tree there is that forever shall sprout.

"Lachel calad - drego morn!"

Of ancient trees and rugged trails-and of the difference between joy and fun

 Some time ago I felt burned out again. Now most of the stuff I do is rewarding work and I don´t mind a bit of a fight, but it has been a long time since I last had a plain old ride into the old hills. It´s a simple case of "don´t know what you´ve got until it´s gone"itis. I maybe could manage to ride more often, what with a scheduled ride by my own club, but I have lost somewhat the contact to the "scene". Mountainbike riding has always been a case of technical fascination for me, but that was not all there was. Mountainbike riding also had been competitive for me, and I rode a share of races in my life, some of them very hard ones, most of them fun, but that wasn´t all there was either. I´d like to call it a trail I have been on for 29 years now. I have seen very unusual places and rode trails you cannot ride anymore, like the Passo Pasubio at Lago di Garda, or some that people now think of as challenging with a 6" freeride bike with a rigid bike and toeclips, like the Dalco trail. I rode down ski slopes in winter when there were no fatbikes in sight, I rode the 1992 Kaprun downhill worldcup race (did not qualify, to be true). But that was never all that was there. There always was something more to it. It was a bit like the VVA  poem, which influenced me quite a lot:

"Scream with force into the driving wind-

And listen to the echoes in your mind"

(Victor Vincente of America)

I could rant on endlessly about "flow experiences in forest environments" and have written long essays about the coherence between flow, ch´i, satori, eucharist and Awen, but that´s not my topic now. 

In the mountainbike scene, as everywhere else, it´s more often than not just about shiny parts and fancy clothing. Riding skills are an issue, but not as important, and if you hone your riding skills, you do it to be able to keep up in a culture of constantly pushing the envelope to an extreme degree. Now I am all for some big air and technical trails, but fact is, three out of five mountainbikers build illegal trails now. They can´t tell a spruce from an oak, and it is most disgusting to see they do not even care. They want their fun. Now. They don´t want to go the extra length to fight for legal trails (and I can even understand why that is so, with the authorities just doing nothing but prohibiting an otherwise ecologically sensible activity). Those who already have legal trails carelessly endanger it by careless behaviour or let others run wild with a spade on their legal courses. 

The woods is what counts to me, and having the privilege to be out there. A tree is a living thing, and while you might have a reason to cut down one or two, you´d better have a good one in my book. Trees assure our survival. No trees or green life, no life at all. This equation is dead simple, and without considering it, mankind will be simply dead. I personally am one of those crazy head-in-the-clouds tree huggers. Ah yes, I cut a stick from a blackthorn hedge or the like. But I know where and when and what to do so that the tree does not die and even profits by it. I am not enfuriated because illegal trail building is against the law of human society. I detest it because most of them do not know what they do, and their understanding is superficial at best, and I hate their utter ignorance of their lack of understanding and their aggressive stand towards remaining ignorant. 

Now I love a good jump as much as anyone else, and love to ride trails I cannot ride in the first. Why can´t I then just embrace their endeavour and forsake that treehugger blahblah (this is a quote)?

Because there are trails in abundance. Lots of trails in the periphery of my home are so challenging, that even with a modern all - mountain fullsuspended bike, few would ride them first-time. There are switchbacks with stairs so ragged, roots and stones so gnarly, that even a modern bike can be put to its limits. The culprit is, they do not start in your quarter, you have to venture beyond suburbia to find them. To do that, you have to take time and power to get out there. Few want this. They are accustomed to get everything, NOW! CHEAP! And they are many, and they are weak, but there is strength in ignorance and numbers, alas, the story of my life.

And thusly, for a long time now, I have admitted defeat. I have long forsaken reading their shiny magazines and take part in their craze of novelty mania where nothing´s as old as the bike of last month, and last year´s models are the ones you can buy this year in summer. And when I last took part in the club ride, I noticed two things: I could no longer partake in their conversations, and their communication was strange for me, for they are cyborg zombies in that they are always in a frenzy to communicate at the same time on facebook, what´s app, twitter and personally (in this priority order). And, when I partook, they gladly refused their responsibility and put it on my shoulders. As much I love to work with kids, try guiding a tour with but one kid constantly using his smartphone whith one hand while trying to speed down a gnarly downhill, and having not enough skill for two hands, and you know there´s a problem.

So, I dimissed riding with others altogether, and, wanting to be left alone, left my bike at home also, because it´s a bummer if you want to watch wildstock and have to tread carefully through the thicket and carry a bike on your back. And riding off trails is not an option for me.

But the memories of times gone by keep coming, and while many of them circle around great rides with friends I have lost now to the grey maggot machine, more memories circle around mountains I had seen and trails I´d ridden. Not all of them fond, but many. Most revolve around the feeling of flow, of feeling with the heart of the buzzard gliding beside the trail when I flew down the hill, just 2 m away. This were the most exilarating moments to me, when I felt one with the law of the universe, when I felt there is a deity and I was part of it. And my bike was a vehicle to it. It enabled me to feel the flight of the buzzard beside me, and it took me places I had never seen were it not for those 11 tubes of metal, rubber and chains.

I realized that this is a good thing and a good reason to ride. It helps me strive to be a better and more whole human being. It helps me keep my sanity in an insane world. I know I am relatively slow at the moment, with my profound lack of training, but it does not matter. There´s noone to compete with, and noone to pass my skill on. Noone will understand these feelings, but that does not matter either. I will write about them no less. 

Those were my thoughts just when I got out of my flat. And the trail called with mighty voices never to be heard.

 Into the darken woods. To be true, my ride started with a long transit along a bike lane, but it is the most comfortable way to get to where I wanted, a beautiful valley leading up to the mountaintops I have so long forsaken. The weather forecastz had been quite awful, but that did not keep me out of the woods. When I heard the little creek murmur and sing, I simply had to stop and listen. Otherwise, all was silent, and not a soul was onm the way. But the creek sang its song silently.

 And I recognized how trees sink their roots into the rich, dark soil, with the odour of autumn rising up. And a thought occurred to me. How come, so did I contemplate, that in the season of decay the earth smells rich and strong and nourishing as if you could feed on the scent alone? It was as if the green life grows stronger in the autumn, as if the light we humans cannot see anymore, ver-iugos, the power that is above the yoke, thrives in the decay, but not in sickness and rotting, but in the cycles of life and death, of hunt and feast.

 Thus sang the creek and the fallen trees,

 thus sang the mist arising.

 I set down my trusty bike, and climbed down to the water.

 And listened to the song of spirits in the glistening trickle, eerie, but still loud enough for ears that can listen.

 Gently, leaves rustled, and still the trees stood green and thriving, but in a gentle breeze they fell and danced.

 Then it was time to rise, and mount my bike. I was pleased with the new tires I recently bought, for my old ones were bald as baby heads. For those interested in things like that, I now ride Maxxis Minions, and I am very content with the traction they provide in muddy conditions. You can slam into a berm full-tilt and still don´t kiss the dirt, and that´s a thing. I have to do some thorough bike service soon (when I can afford it), but overall, I am very pleased with the bike I build a good year ago. It´s something when you ride a lot in foul conditions and the cables and drivetrain and bearings don´t falter a bit. So, no reason to buy anything new, eh? If it were not for those nagging wishes at the back of my brain and the thought of trying to go for it once again. At least there are decent races with proper courses now, like the Enduro series and the like. But then I am 42 now and everyone, so they say, has to suffer his midlife crisis at that age. I am tempted to not have one, just to prove them wrong, but then, where´s the harm? Perhaps I´ll get me one, just for the experience;-). Does anyone know where to get ´em cheap?

Then it was quite a bit of climbing for me, but before I noticed, I was on top of the hill.

 And looked across some scenic vistas

 It sometimes pays off to have your head in the clouds and many bitter and sweet and weird thoughts in your head. That way you don´t realize you have to climb and the hurting in your legs;-). I took no pictures of the singletrails I rode. Nothing to brag about, but flowing enough, and it´s funny-if all runs great and you feel great, you have little to tell, and I had few thoughts descending, just feelings, and feelings I cannot tell anyone intelligently of. It is a kind of windshield-wiper effect as I like to call it. Your mind just goes blank, and to me, this is a sort of kathartic effect, for, hey, someone who writes stuff like this post, certainly thinks too much.;-).

 I then rode the trail down to the river Volme, and it was unchanged, even if the last time I was here was years ago, constantly flowing and never the same;-).

 On the singletrail I came across this oak, which presumeably was struck by lightning, and soot-blackened was its stem. And yet, there they sprouted, violently, fresh green leaves, yes, still green in spite of the late time in this year, where everything seems to have gone mad. And I daresay it will become stronger by the damage the fire had done, straining its roots ever stronger into the rocky soil, maybe ravaged by the storm, maybe struck by lightning, but standing still with its branches and stem dancing with the wind.

 My trail led on, and I daresay my trail leads on, a trail I have ridden countless times in my life, ever changing, never the same, often fiercely uphill and smoothly, flowingly, inspite of gnarled rocks and roots, down.

 Over hills and far away, as I did countless times before, and yet, it was still different.

 And I came by my old friend, the Priorlinde, an ancient (1000+ years old) linden tree. Often have I spent hours of starlit nights under its mighty branches, in winter, spring and summer. I have kissed girls under it and grieved for them under its branches, I have laughed and cried and hugged it and danced under the stars and the moon under it. It maybe old, but I am very glad it still sprouts.

 On and on the trail led me, up a steep incline I had never managed to ride the years before, and down a hill with more memories still, but I rode it in the present. It started to rain, a light drizzle, and I was feeling exhausted, but there were some miles still to come. Then, suddenly, or so it seemed, I came across this hut beside the fireroad, and since the rain went from drizzle to downpour, I just used the opportunity to just do some more stumpsitting and have a cuppa tea.

 So many things are there I could tell you. How I sat there in silence, listening to the jewel - like raindrops fall from the roof, how the solitude and silence soothed my heart, until it was time to get on the long ride home. How the solemn feeling of the sombre woods in the rain was a bit countercorrected by the feeling of cold and wet sneaking up your arse;-) to be precise.

But all this will not hit the nail on its head, so to say. I think there is a difference in experiences like this to the plain old fun ride. And one might argue it has something to do with me being depressive, and in some cases, this would be right. But I have long thought about it. A ride like this is not cool or extreme and does not kick anyone´s ass, and certainly not mine. It was just a leisurely ride in silence and solitude, with deep experiences. I have taken friends on leisurely rides like this, by the way, and it was not five hours into the ride that they cried for home, but that´s not the culprit either. There were just so many things to see, wonderful things, weird things and wild impressions, that I had to think about it. Why do I like rides like this? They  are not what I´d call fun. Funrides are rides where you laugh your head off after chasing your buddies down a trail that could kill you. That´s fun. This ride wasn´t a fun ride, and it has been quite some time that I went on a fun ride.

But the simple pleasure of not only seeing all those wonderful things, but becoming a part of it, was a pleasure that far transcends the concept of fun. I see the necessity of fun rides, too, and I have to do some more in the future. But even more important to me would be to try to integrate both. They say a man can´t have both, but why not? "If the farmer can´t swim, it´s always the bathing trunks" is not an option.

So:

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

(J.R.R Tolkien: The Road Goes Ever On, in: Lord Of the Rings)

With eager tires, I might add. It´s not the bike, nor its components, but a chance that´s far bigger than just the next stupefaction by adrenaline. Adrenaline and endorphine are great to experience, but if you just serve them, there´s something wrong. They are your hormons after all, and they have to serve you, not the other way round. The same goes for your bike. If it serves you, great, you might even give it a name, in earnest or mockery. But if you are servant to your bike, or worse yet, the industry, you will never ride onwards on the path.

But of course I have found a resolve, for if you have no fun in life, it´s entirely your own fault. And I know this full well, even if I have ranted about the effect the behaviour of others had on my life, but this was meant to be purely descriptive, and my decisions have been made by me long ago.

I have found out on this ride that I just need this trail. It is a part of my spirituality, and has made me what I am, and to reach the next crossroads, I must RIDE on. Not just walk, or talk, that much rhyme shall be allowed;-). So have to pay a bit more attention to my bike, that- alas!- has been a bit neglected in the past, and have a bit more rides like this and to find out more about that delicate line between joy and fun. And I want to put a bit of blacksmithing into my mountainbike riding. I have some ideas, but they are not ripe enough to spill them yet. Quite certainly there´s a jig and a TIG-welder involved;-).

And so I see new hills with new uphills and more downhills ahead, and I look forward to them.

A flaming autumn day´s ride, trail etiquette, cuppa tea and knife testing with a sundown as icing-perfect, I´ll take it.

 Yesterday, th sun was out and the day exploded with colours ever so vibrantly. I am currently depressed quite often, what with neither time nor money resulting in longtime "friends" taking their excuse, so to say, and grey weather in the bargain.

But one thing has always been certain to me: The woods are out there, and the spruce tops are singing in the wind. It was the first sound in my life I heard, for after I was born in hospital, I lived in the forest for 33 years. I think to remember opening my eyes from a sleep that was deeper than life, and awakening to the wonder of green, with the vibrantly green leaves and the dark green of the spruce and fir tops moving in a breeze. There were runes there I could not decipher, and of runes i knew not in the first place, but I was calm immediately and looked at the gently moving signs amazed. It is a world that has always embraced me, and it was never natural for me to live in a city, and all the roaring noise frightened me as a kid. Now, as someone who is seen as an adult;-), I know exactly why it frightened me. I overcame my fears and now there is but a mild pity left for the ways of modern day man, and, with a sense of self - irony I realize that I am part of the whole mess already. I have to, as anyone has to, at least to a certain degree, partake in the everyday madness.

And yet, the woods are waiting. They are not self - conscious. They just exist. They are not nice, and you might die there as well as live, and the trees and beasts could not care less. But if you really want to, you can become a part of it all, and all that will not matter any more. It is not important if you are "but" a newborn child or a grown individual, in fact, you stand more of a chance understanding it as a whole if you see it with the eyes of a newborn child. And since it is not possible to refer to that phenomenon intelligently, for it is autotelic, I will shut up about that for now and tell you about the ride.

 I rode towards the hills, and I was quite exhausted, but I carried on and made it into the woods.

 I was rewarded ever so richly with the flaming gold of a low sun in a crystal-blue sky. The air was cold and frisky, and every silhouette was standing out clear and sharp in this clean atmosphere. This space made me breathe deep and calm, and, even if the trail went uphill quite technically challenging, I managed without a dabbing of a foot. Then I saw two horseback riders approaching in the distance. Noticing one of the horses was rather shy, I pulled to the side of the trail to let them pass and waved them on. As they passed, we had a chat, and this chat turned out in a way chats like this unfortunately have a habit of turning out; both of them were quite amazed that I had let them pass and had some friendly words for them, for normally mountainbikers yell at them, slam into their horses (which is a most silly thing to do, for who wants to be confronted with a ton of whinnying, kicking, biting, half - mad horse must have but some three brain cells, and those situated in the Amygdala at best), find it funny to scream at the horses while passing at top speed from behind. I have to believe those two horseback riders (and the many others I have talked to, and I sometimes feel ashamed for my "fellow" mountainbike riders. Many are Testosterone-blind morons only interested in their own "fun", which mostly consists in putting the hurt to their "fellow" riders. In my time in the club I have encountered every facet of antisocial behavior, from slightly moron to outright dangerous, from relishing in hurting others up the hill to leaving injured riders with a wrecked bike in the middle of nowhere and laughing afterwards about that while telling the tale, to spooking horses and destroying private property just in the name of the almighty "fun". Those individuals are, in my book, retarded, anti - social, superficial arseholes. I have worked for trail access since 1990, I have worked for bettering the communication between the "user" groups of the woods, and, for the most part, have lived to the IMBA rule codex.

I took my trash home.
I controlled my speed.
I respected other trail users.
I avoided shortcuts and stuck to the trails.
I avoided offensive behavior such as yelling, skidding, and jumping at the encounter of other trail users.
I only modified trails with the permission of the land owner / the forest bureau or rebuilt the natural state after doing so.

Of course, there are morons amongst the other user groups as well, but, hey, if you do not communicate, you cannot better any situation. And if you behave like an asshole, you deserve to be treated as one, mountainbiker or not.

The culprit is, I had a chat with those two horseback riders, told them to address the website www.mtb-hagen.de in case they had one of those unfortunate encounters again, we wished each other to have a fine day and went on our merry way, content with the fact that we had done something good. Simple as that. And it does not mean you can´t have fun. I had. I took the next trail down the hill, and really let loose.

But, if you don´t know what brakes are for, you should not ride a bike. Period. I know, and if anyone asks, I will teach anyone, for free even if you ask politely enough.

But, as is my wont these days, shredding simply does not suffice all of the time. So I visited my oaken friend atop the hill overlooking that lake (I hope you appreciate I spared you another picture of the vista*ggg*). There, I had a cuppa tea (ten, in fact;-)), an apple and some bannock, and out came the bush knife for some testing.

 It´s the one I made in the Bethaus smithy the other day. I put a bevel on it (not that it needed it:-), take note I was proud:-/)

 I did a quick leather wrapping to the handle and it was ready to go.

 Spine thickness is about 6mm. The blade is 140 mm long, and made from selectively tempered spring steel that has seen some very conservative heat treating. It supports my weight. As a prybar, it´s a cinch!

 First came the prying test. I slammed it up to 1 cm into that log and levered the tip out-no damage whatsoever. In fact, I kicked it with my boots to pry it out. No harm done.

 Then I hacked halfway through that log. Then I realized that a cylindrical handle shape as with that knife is not feeling exactly right for that kind of task. Also, I blistered my hand on the sharp butt of the handle. Not so good. What was more grave is that it did not shave after that. But I forgot to test sharpness before, so it might as well be the bevel was not fine enough in the first place. I have to check it out encore un fois at home.

I leant the ride gainst a tree and snuck inside the stems of the three-stemmed oak...

 I sipped my tea and savoured the golden light and the fading warmth. Then I had the sensation of warmth radiating from the bark of the tree itself, and not only the energy it had stored from the light of the sun. It warmed me from my belly up, my heart as well as my head. I smiled, had another swig of tea and thanked the tree for its gift.

 It has been the source of many mocking, cynical remarks by many people I met, but, yes, I love trees. I love them as a piece of creation, as my fellow beings, and for no reason especially as well.

 In the depth of the bark, there were tiny ants squirrelling along, and in the cold autumn air some few midgets were dancing their strange dances, their wings translucent with flaming, golden light.

 There are worlds inside worlds, worlds above, inside and neighbouring, life everywhere even in the autumn, even in winter. Life itself is wonderful and deserves better than the ridiculous mess humans make of it.

I then really enjoyed practicing my feather stick skills with my new Nessie. It makes some really delicate shavings. It feels light and nimble. Not a knife for hacking, though, even if batoning works quite well, too. There are better whittlers, too, due to the offset of the edge line, but you can grow accustomed to that. I think I´ll make more like this...

 Then the sun was sinking, and I relished in the vibrating colours.

 I put my headlamp on and made for the trail home. By the way, I was on the road with the last shred of light. I have, of course, done rides where I could not avoid being in the forest after dark with a torchlight on, but doing so scares the animals, who need all the rest they can get in winter. So please, if you have any sense in you, do not ride at max speed with max headlight on through the woods. Going silently and unlighted is another matter, if you can do so, or, if you must, stick to fireroads that are also widely frequented during the day. That way, animals can grow accustomed to your impact and do not panic all the time.

 Overlooking the hills of home with the last shred of light.

It was a beautiful day, and a solemn calm filling me up to the brim. Of course, all the peace in my heart did wear off suddenly with my next encounter with the next urban human, but that´s another story, and it´s not worth telling at all.

The light, however, and the energy of the trees, are mine. And noone can ever take it from me.