Approaching the continental divide, br Glacier Park, Montana br br — br br Seven hours trudging through the pines, br all pine, all the time, br uphill, taking a respite for water and chocolate, br br leaning against the sappy trunk, br my back soaked through, br but feeling light, the weight gone, br br I might fly away. I just might. br Another four hours will get me there, halfway, br then tomorrow— br br break the tree line, first taste of snow, br then, lord willing, camp. br I pray no one will be there. br br I’m a long way from civilization, br and it feels like coming home. br br — br br What if you are there? What then? br Wary maneuvering? br Vous me détestez, n’est-ce pas? br br Peut-être que vous allez me tuer, br tenir la poêle de fer pour ma tête. br Ah well, I deserve it. br br No, you will not be there, of that I’m sure. br Now, I rise and sling my pack... br “miles to go before I sleep” comes to mind. br br No, you will not be there. No one will. br I am seeking forgiveness. My sin, what isn’t my sin? br Je souhaite vous ne me déteste pas. br br Peut-être il est pour le miex. br This is a grand place. I begin my penance.br br Hanque O . . .