The mountains are wrapped up in snowy blankets and the darkness swallows the afternoons with the appetite of a wolf.
With that same appetite, I devour books.
Of course, I still love going hiking in winter time. The crisp air, the slanted light, the sound of my feet treading in fresh snow ; everything familiar is seen as new again, the effervecence of summer gives way to a quieter and more composed mood.
But these long winter nights offer another kind of journey : the spines of mountains turn into spines of books, the hiking grounds are pages and the trail becomes a line of printed characters.
In my sentimental backpack, my love for words weighs just as much as my love for the outdoors. Maybe it is my way of asking for forgiveness from the trees that have become paper?