Sitting by the big fireplace at Lake Crescent Lodge with a glass of wine and a blanket wrapped around my feet, it was the first Monday night in November. I had scrambled alone up 2,000 feet of steep switchbacks to summit Mount Storm King that morning before breakfast and spent the rest of the day adjusting to the clarity that comes from listening to the pounding of one’s own heart for a ninety-minute hard climb before finally stopping to rest atop a craggy, precarious ledge of a mountaintop with a view of, well, everything. Something shifted inside me and I had to write it down.

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