Day 33: The first real snow has fallen at Longmire, and the upper Mountain shows far less rock than it did two weeks ago. Winter is making its descent from the summit, threading its fingers into the valleys, covering the ridgelines, sharpening the bite of wild river waters. Yet for all that, some deciduous trees hold valiantly to their leaves, not ready to consign exclusive reign of the forests to the evergreens; but theirs is a repeating phase of history, a battle lost. I feel a kinship with them as I walk the campground road, my hands burning with the nip of cold and my Vibram soles slipping on the ice. Were it not for a woolly cap, my ears might turn color and drop at the next passing breeze. Here at the Mountain's foot, Autumn is no more than a fortnight of transitional weather, like the passage of Man through the golden prime 'twixt youth and age.
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