Breathing High and Free
There will always be the freedom of the everlasting hills. The deep magical silence of stone. When you stretch for that last hold below the roof, levitated above the abyss, you are so very in the moment, your breath comes out of the granite itself. And sometimes the language of birds up there just becomes clear, suddenly and simply. They care not for the joys of cams and clicking carabiners or for the smell of chalk dust upon the wind. But I do, and I have to say that in these moments I am happy and awake as only a blind man can be. These are my real friends in high places.