Ancient rolling hills and valleys’ embraces are warmer than feisty new eleven thousand feet all mountains. Their shadows are gentler and less menacing. Although glaciers will shock and bring forth lots of tears and sighs with their extreme blues and whites but they will not love back. They’re too busy, they’re too upwardly mobile. They’re too young. The old ones, though, the sinkholes and caves and moraines that used to be blue and young will love you without reason or focused goal or ulterior motive. They are simply there. They allow the moss to grow on them. They don’t mind if you stomp all over their foyers with their your muddy boots, in fact they’ll send their Disney creatures to greet you at the door. I am happier here in the old mountains, where time has decided to yawn and stretch and all harsh lines of progress have been erased. Underneath the shadow of where the world begins, the pressure cooker of the center of the Earth was too bossy, too cocky, too unrelenting. Beautiful, but unrelenting.