At the end of the ninth switchback of Old Rag, I sat on a rock to drink in the view as I nibbled on fruit leather. I talked for a little while with a woman who seemed to be about my age. I don’t remember anything that we said, but I remember being fulfilled by it. We would never see each other again, but the kind pleasantries we exchanged mid-gruel were enough.
We each, on our own, were enough.