The granite and schists of my dark and stubborn country
loomed ahead like a grumpy old giant, arms crossed and
refusing to budge. I had packed only a backpack, a
dubious map, and an overinflated sense of bravery. Rocks
jutted like teeth, trails twisted like pretzels, and every
squirrel seemed to judge my clumsy feet. Somewhere a
goat - or was it a wild-eyed hermit?, bleated a warning. I
slipped, tumbled, and somehow ended up dangling from
a cliff by my shoelaces, like a confused marionette.
Yet, through sheer luck, stubbornness, and an embarrassing
amount of swearing, I found the summit, triumphant.
From up there, the land glared back at me, granite and
schists unyielding, as if saying, " So you've survived. For now"
The first line, “The granite and schists of my dark and stubborn country.” is
from the poem by Nan Shepherd, “The Hill Burns”
Mirror to My Soul by Heather Mirassou 
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