Driving through the hills between snowbanks taller than the car, slipping on corners as the car glasses over the sheen ice skin of the road. Attempts to steer with caution not driven by fear seems impossible. The moments when driving bush trails between thick northern forests between sparse lakes. The dead cold movement of only the snow that tumbles off the branches of ancient giants. The odd creak, crack, and smashing of a broken branch followed by the thundered bombs of heavy snow that slams to the forest floors. The solitudinist drives home, alone, through mountains reflecting on the heaviness that so often separates me from everyone else.
Alone in Mountains: