I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. The trail has strung upon it, as upon a thread of silk, opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets.

The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.

In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries no man can ignore all of them.

I'm very gregarious, but I love being in the hills on my own.

Occasionally I have come across a last patch of snow on top of a mountain in late May or June. There's something very powerful about finding snow in summer.