A Night Hike to Mountaintop Magic

It’s one of those fall to winter days when the wind is whipping, and the wind chill is driven twenty degrees colder. A fine day stay put with the heat on, candles flickering, Mozart playing, and soup on the stove. Samwise and Emily are busy gnawing old marrow bones that have been refilled with peanut butter and frozen. They’ve received half a foot of snow on the western edge of the mountains, but here in Jackson, we’ve got only wind, and the sun has finally come out to play. 

I’ve spent much of the morning reading, finishing Agatha Christie’s final Hercule Poirot book, Curtain. Oh, what a pleasure it’s been to follow the quirky detective’s career through a combination of audiobooks, Brit Box, movies, and reading. As is often the case if we are lucky, I’m holding onto the ache of saying goodbye to a memorable literary character. Since returning home six months ago, I’ve invited Hercule (and Agatha’s fascinating mind) into my life, and I’m all the better because of it. 

It’s been a good T…