+43° 58' 49", -71° 17' 54"

With the sun west-southwest, the imagined horns of “Ring-a-Ding Ding” are convenient agitators. This lost trail is left to shallow running water and soggy gravel crossings: tiny bothers, now. The toes of Gene Kelley are inessential, but remembered.

+43° 57' 24", -71° 16' 24"

Emerging into rockface, there are high winds and peaks everywhere. But the clear landscape is quickly displaced by trail blazes and the concentration required for one heel, one knee, one core, repeated. My ankles are dusty and the air is dry. I am salt-stained. It will be brilliant like this for hours.

+44° 10' 16", -71° 43' 59"

A brook would be dishonest; a cascade implies absent drama. Are you good with names? The sky is grey, distilled. Everything else is cool and saturated. Both stones and birds lack malice. This crouched affair begs for sunlight and passengers; it is an empty vessel, offered.