a map, holding promised trails and rising slopes that have long since swallowed the path. latent optimism at finding a way out amongst the hungry mountains. a fire, recently cold, crumbles under the dripping sky. walking in shepherds trails, following their scent like hounds without breakfast. a sense of moments left behind.
a deeply bowed valley, breast torn apart by generations of ice that have long since slipped away. the song, relentlessly begging not to go out in the rain that pours down. the trudge onward and upward, colossal mountains that never get closer, and never get drier. collapsing into the perfect silence of a cold wet sunset. huddled under a boulder, seeking dryness with futility.
a camp, with no birds, no flies, no bugs to tease us away from starlight. silence so dark, the whisper of angels is barely heard. a whisper of utter isolation. an ice-cold walk into the abyss to fetch water, dripping from craggy peaks under moonlight snow. a hot soup, a simple meal and a deep, blank slumber wretched from a spectacular day of vivid vistas, lost trails and cold wet rain.
hugs and love from wet day in the Caucasus
joe
