The mountains are calling and I must go.

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

I love to think of nature as an unlimited broadcasting station, through which God speaks to us every hour, if we will only tune in.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.