Massif

All my life I've been in love with mountains. As the trees surrender and the snow falls, my heart races just a little more.



I first saw the rainbow-footed mountains in southern Germany when I was 27, and my life changed forever.

Here, the mountains have a different face and a dangerous smile. As I breathe the frigid air, the world stretches for countless miles, completely silent. Nothing but the lonely click of a strange bird and the distant rush of the wind, mimicking interstate traffic. There are no lush green fields bursting with swathes of Alpine flowers, not here.







The juniper trees shred their skin, twisting slowly, futilely towards the sky. Their heartwood burns with luscious sweet smoke, reminding me of the American desert and red hills filled with sand.

Mountains call forth all that the skies have to offer. They reach for the clouds and pull forth mighty storms and shrouds of gray anger. On a blue day they sit lazily twirling their fingers in the petticoats of mist. I could watch them forever: powerful, dark, and strong. Older than bones. Older than dirt.