I SHOULD BE WORKING --- at something, anything--- instead of following this familiar track, an old road matured to trail, west up the valley. At the fork for the Dicey Road, I turn north along the grass-softened old ruts toward the ridge. Of course part of the joy of working on this newsletter lies in the partial fiction that this walking is essential work, that the contact of foot and trail is the first and recurring act of imagination in each issue.
Perhaps reaching my forties, and thus having my own lengthening narrative, informs my thoughts, but I see a growing importance for stories that are rooted in traditions during a time when the pace of life and change threaten to outstrip our ability and, at times, our will to remember. Stories teach-- about places, pasts, peoples, and the special senses that each of us brings to them. When we do our work well, I hope that these are the stories and the context that we bring to you, because as the readers you are the point and a part of this journal.
From this ridge I now reach, the high points of the immediate territory appear. They are like Gary Snyder's "blue mountains constantly walking," hills calming and sacred. These mountains inspire dreams and determine paths, a quality shared by mountains and hills around the world.
