I've been dreaming about the mountains, the road up to Jasper, ravens following cars, stopping at every lookout in faithful pairs.
And I remember that feeling the first time I looked up and tried to take in the mountains; dwarfed and vertiginous at the same time. It took me a while to understand you can't just see them like that. It's too much and your brain cracks from trying.
Instead, you can parse it into vistas, pick out specific peaks, a rock rolled onto the frozen lake. You can choose the right soundtrack; Dynamite Walls and Buckner and it will sound perfect until you get too sleepy from the cold and the driving and the white straining your eyes.
I would like to take a winter off and spend it in the mountains, learn to snowshoe and to chop wood, getting the grain and the axe at the right angle, learning to loosen, to strike again. Until a pile is made and my arms are sore. And I can write okay when I'm in Toronto, but when I think about digging really deep into the words, I always wish I was in the mountains.
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