Woods, Words, and Whiskey

Ah, the picturesque. I completely and totally understand the 19th century focus on the sublime in nature. Conjure up some painting from one in the Hudson River School. Though little comes close to Norman Maclean's work. Talk about a way to end a book, "I am haunted by waters." The whole of yesterday afternoon and evening was dedicated to frolicking with and in nature. To that end, we were most successful. Boulder hopping all the way up this not-to-be-named-so-the-uber-fisherman-of-the-group-doesn't-strangle-me stream made for a glorious end to the week. Absolutely clear skies, nice warm temperature, a small flask of quality whiskey, and good company protected by the loving embrace of forest largely untouched by a woodsman's axe. Well, chainsaw really. There is something magnificent in rolling up ones pants and walking in clear, cold running water. This experience is manifestly different from beach frolicking. On a beach you are open and exposed to the saline wind and sand in unspeakable areas. One leaves the beach with no greater disire than to take a shower. Have your beach, waterbabies. I chose the mountain stream or river.

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