Merry Christmas? You betcha.

A breakfast sausage engorged Canadian spending a quiet holiday alone in the mountains of Central America need only conclude a tearful Skype call to the family, load up the fanny pack with nuts, and spread SPF 50 about his bits for a hike to the summit of yet another mountain, to wash his soul of any unnecessary holiday anguish.  Today I hit 5439 feet and was crapping my sweaty shorts most of the trek.  To walk alone along uncharted paths through the hills carries an inherent risk/reward ratio that I do enjoy toying with.  Today was no exception as paths narrowed, tall trees sighed warnings of peril, hawks circled above with snakes dangling from their claws, dogs especially aggressive, Tusken Raider-like convoys of drunken locals hurling what I’ve chosen to interpret as festive greetings, and a face to face with the all-white horse I dub Pegasus.  There are distinct points on these mountains where the road no longer qualifies as such, the power grid angles back downward, and the silence is heavy and awkward.  Your breath shallows, the sweat only beads and won’t stream as the wind lashes across your brow, and you catch that 4^th wind as another tack means another 1km of elevation is upon you.  I resort to physical exertion to rid myself of emotional distress.  I put myself in fearful situations to snap back to the moment.  This is easily one of the hardest days of my life, but somehow I’m thankful that I’m in a place that I can make the most of it.  My hike was indeed a journey through my psyche. Analogies abound and God revealed things to me that I will continue to digest and consider.  Merry Christmas?  You betcha.