In front of me is a small crackling fire of poplar and birch. Just behind me
is calm slow river. But for the very first yellow leaves of autumn landing
on its surface, you could hardly tell that it had a current - the surface
only broken into small ripples by the fish along the riberbanks.
In this part of the country, the mountains have been ground down to dark
rolling hills and the valleys are thick lush green lands of incredible
beauty. Early morning mists coil like magic. Until the sun turns the land to
an emerald streaked with the emerald blue river.
And there is sky here - high and blue, or ceilinged with clouds - but not
hemmed in by buildings and noise and choke of the city. Here, the sky
promises of an unknown treasure just over the horizon, just beyond where you
can see.
It is the promise of that treasure that calls the traveler ever forward. It
is what beckons to the heart of every adventurer. And all of us, nomads in
our own way, pursuing our own quiet desperate quests, we push forward toward
the next horizon.
We push forward until hunger or tiredness or some ache of loneliness calls
us to stop for a rest - which is when we discover that the smoke of our fire
rising above the treetops and drifting over a silent river signals that the
magic just over the horizon is actually right here.
Just me.
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