“There are no safe paths in this part of the world. Remember you are on the Edge of the Wild now, and in for all sorts of fun wherever you go.”—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
On the edge of the wild was where she felt most alive, and in it then, she breathed full the cold of autumn mountain air, the scent of pine burning in fire before, cackling soft and giving smoke of its resin as coffee kettle whistled, boiling of the flame.
Exhaling, breath breathed as cloud condensing, rising slow, and dissipating into alpine air as Annie gazed on landscape all around.
They camped in meadow of valley floor and a ribbon stream of snow melt and spring ran clear and silver, winding in its bounds as to east and west ridges rose, their sides golden in aspens’ turn, each mountain wind scattering leaves, like gold upon the air; a living gold rush of richness for all to find and see and have their share. But like every such rush, it is only for a time, and one must be present in the moment to witness and affirm the bounty before the wealth departs and gold is scattered and returned to the earth, carried far off on currents of the stream and all that’s left is barren hardness of mountains stripped of splendor.
In the cool of the air, finding touch and place between her and fire’s warmth, she drew her felt coat tighter, warming in its thick ply as stocking cap warmed her head.
James drew the kettle from the flame, pouring each a mug of rich, dark coffee boiled of grinds that settled on the bottom and would be filtered in the last. It warmed her hands as she held, steam contrasting and striking in presence and change from alpine cold that left the meadow grass in frosted cast.
She thought of a book and a line and living as it said. All great adventures require risk, even the adventure is as common—and grand—as discovery and truth of self. She smiled on the thought, seeking the world to find adventure when all the while, one’s greatest resides—waiting—within; should we ever dare to seek.
She smiled on James, and thought of the dreams and stories that he wrote, his daring of the most common, and averted, adventure in this world: actualization.
It was funny, for all he seemed to find and possess, none was sought but found by wandering in the adventure, through the risks and dangers and follies that come in being open to new and unknowns whereby, after, they become no longer either.
“Valleys and vistas of the soul, like those in living world right now,” she thought, “how grand to stumble on and view for the first true and witnessing time: a way one’s never seen before and will never see again. How do you tell and show that to another?” Annie wondered.
She knew the answer too, “in a story.”
Coffee made and warming in hold and drink, Annie gazed from wilds to James in rest, writing once again. She appreciated that, in stories and writing too, he dared to write on the edge of the wilds.
Edge of the Wilds—in life and art and expressed soul—where adventure and discovery forever waits.
Feeling himself watched, James’ eyes rose from the open page filling with flow of thoughts. He smiled to Annie, face pale and cheeks blushed in touch of mountain cool and coffee’s warming, breath of cloud rising and returning back to oneness with open sky. She was always beautiful, especially at the edge of the wilds.
“Where do you want to go today,” he asked.
“Into the wilds,” she answered, smiling and eyes drawing to the gold of mountain sides in west and snow crowned crests above.
He smiled, excited too for adventure beyond the edge of the wilds.
Adventure is always there, if only one dares to seek.