On the walk out this morning, I met a guy named Phil. We pawed the muddy path as we talked, looking down at our hiking boots. He wore an expensive set of binoculars on his shoulder and a blue shirt holed with tiny tears. He spoke with a southern drawl. "I love the sound," he said. "The world disappears back here."
It was his first time up the trail, he told me. He'd driven the twenty slow miles to the trailhead on a lark, and since it was such a nice day, he'd headed up the trail, following the river. "It's a whole different kinda world back here," he said.
We shook hands. I kept thinking about the worlds and the sound.