I planned to finish my vacation posts before moving on, but I can’t resist inserting some pictures from yesterday’s incredible paddle on Lost Lake below the north face of Mount Hood.  I am such a sentimental old fool.  It is my mountain.  I can see it from my upstairs window from 100 miles away.  Sometimes shrouded in clouds.  Sometimes bright orange as the snow reflects the sunset.  As I sat snapping pictures from my little boat,   I tried to think of the words for how I felt.  They all seemed trite.

Pretty much all I could think of was, “Dear God of my childhood, whom I seem to have lost somewhere along the way, I cannot think of any words to describe you, but you have done it yourself with no words at all.”  I was blessed with childlike enchantment once again.