I watched the arrow of my compass as I reached the highlands overlooking the fjord. I stood on the cliff’s edge and took in the northern valley. Below me was the distant green of the pines, diluted by the grey of winter deciduous trees and bare rock. A faint wind pressed against my shirt. A small lake lay still and black to the west, fed by the distant roar of a springtime waterfall.
I listened. I inhaled, feeling the cool air against my teeth. I fingered the Peruvian whistle around my neck and grinned at the thought of what other hikers might think. And I roared back.
I called to the waterfall, expecting to hear my hollow voice echo back to me from across the valley, but I heard nothing. The waterfall kept rushing but my voice fell silent. Instead of bouncing against the periphery of nature, I had been absorbed into it.
