Long cobalt shadows stretch these icy slopes, a path we often take, My wife, my dog and I, step into this romantic frame. The rays are bright and give us hope, of warmth and news that will come. Time has slipped through the ridges, since Thomson played beneath these pines, watching seasons change with a hunter’s eye, matching every color and mixing paints in his dreamy palette. As we walk and crunch the powder beneath us, I see what he saw - the raw, the jagged and the untamable north, the scene then captured in my memory to one day turn into a canvas. A hundred years of thaws and freezes, lights shifting, seasons drifting, the splendor and geometry remain, not faded - it has only waited for another brush to find it. As we step into the theater he left us and watch the drama unfold, we know our tracks; come spring will vanish but hope the strokes I make will hold. Afterall, we are all guests of the moment - from birth to death, we are living in borrowed light.