Following you westward along the steep ridge trail in January, I step in your snow-crisped tracks on oak and beech leaf parchment. The waterfall careers down among umbers and blacks of ice-filigreed rock past tattered moss, polishing the shale cliff to a dark gloss. Old mountains, these, wearing and worn. Through tree trunks, the edge of the gorge appears, and the opposite ridge bristling with spruce and thorn, and beyond, the valley, and the reservoir’s tarnished sheen, and still farther, hills gathering bluish weight as the sky pales. Through many seasons now, I’ve followed you along this path. With your camera, you’ve snapped thousands of scenes, and I’ve sketched the view from the look-out boulder to the opposite ledge wrapped in ice, or greenly fringed. But how to…