Day 43: There is just a hint of dawn in the sky this morning, just a feathering of color along the tops of the clouds which so thickly hide the Mountain. But dawn light, however faint, is restorative. Were I in the backcountry, I would be sitting in the door of the tent, a cup of coffee clutched in mittened hands and the hood of my sleeping bag drawn up over my head as I watch the dawn creep into the sky, fading out one star after another until only the brightest remains. I would watch its blush of light wash the crags above my camp, watch it shimmer on the overnight scattering of frost crystals. But I am not in the wild high country. I am at home, and the beauty of dawn pierces the dark evergreens and sends its golden hope into my spirit.
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