Nehaveigur

I’m on a plane. This morning, I woke up in a Sheraton hotel room and this afternoon I’ll be in a corporate office with a glass wall on one side, a white board with week-old diagrams in blue and green on the other, and my desk in between.

Looking out of the plane’s small window and seeing the tree- and snow-covered slopes of the Rocky Mountains below, I imagine being down there. I’d ski between the trees, with the snow dampening the sounds of the forest so that all I can hear is the swish of the skis and my breathing. It’d be cold enough that I can also feel the breath leaving and entering my nostrils. I’d bring a thermos, and when I sit down on a rock after having wiped off the snow with my gloves, I’d pour the coffee into a cup, observing the gray steam against the dark trees.

A little later, we’re over the Nevada desert. The trees are mostly gone and only the mountain peaks have snow. I’d explore one of the dry valleys that have no road leading into them, walking between the shrubs and rocks, sometimes scrambling up a slope to get a better view. Even though it’s November, it gets hots at noon.

Later yet, we’re above the Eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada. If I were down there, I’d drive along Highway 395 until I find a side road that leads closer to the peaks. It’d have to promise a creek or a clearing among the pine trees that I could camp in. One small lake that I see from my plane’s window is frozen and has a smattering of ice on it. Maybe I could find that one, and after making sure the ice is solid enough, venture out on it. I’d run as fast as the ice allows, then stop and slide towards the snowy shore until it’s time to make a fire and warm some soup.