High Places

I remember, when I was a teenager I did a fair amount of wandering around the woods on the outskirts of my town. There's a strip of woodland that runs the length of West River road. The Grand River Valley has steep sides carved by the rushing glacial melt waters of the last Ice Age.

There are some spectacular views at the crest of the hills at the top of the valley, I remember, on one of my walks I came across a sitting area that consisted of two old Adirondack chairs side by side facing out across a beautiful vista. High on a nearby tree there was a sign upon which was written the name of a man that I can't remember, but beneath the name was written the phrase “He loved, good music, conversation, and high places”.

I remember thinking that the man must be long dead, for the condition of the chairs were poor, they were nearly falling apart.

He's been dead that much longer, because its been nearly thirty years since I came across that sacred little spot.

The things that he loved, the dead man, the man who's name I read, but cannot remember, the things he loved live on in me, good music, conversation and high places.