Mountainbiking in Scotland

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There are no words
Doing justice to mountains wearing an ice crystal tiara, once the sun hits after a snow shower.
The layered papercut of hills stretches seemingly endless into the horizon
Spring growth is slowly changing the landscape
Still predominantly browns–you would think it’s boring
But the dramatic light as clouds chase the sun

Or is sun chasing the clouds?

Takes your breath anyway.
Hidden emerald jewels made of small ponds
Are dotted across the broken skin of the ancient hills.
Thousands of birds, a deer looks at us curiously, red squirrels dash across paths,
And I almost have an air traffic accident with a robin–we are both racing downhill.
It smells of summer in waiting.
Of bark and rain.
As soon as the sun breaks through the clouds my cold fingers warm up.
Rough ground crunches underneath my tires.
The tick green of pines darkens the path.
Only sunrays manage to break through,
Dousing us in green light.
The scent becomes heavy with acidic soil.
And still there are no words to describe the scenery adequately

Wild Camping

A kaleidoscope of cascading ridges
As above
So below

An imperceptible breeze
Gently moves the silvery surface
Ever so slightly distorting the twinning hills
A liquid mirage

It is late August
So late the woods smell of autumn

Mother pine is our host today
The tend pitched within her embracing roots
Clinging to the shoreline

I feel salvaged anyway
The sap moves tangibly below my sleeping matt
Branches above shelter from immediate sun or rain
The moon hangs like a windchime between two pine trunks
Despite the morning light

Tranquility distracts me for a moment
From all the things I should be doing instead

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