For a walker in the suburbs, I have trouble with pacing. Not with the steps themselves — those come naturally — but with how many to take in 17 waking hours.

The days of high walking, of great movement, those liberate and restore. But so do the days of sitting and writing, jumping up only when the sun starts sliding to the west and I realize that if I don’t leave now I won’t get to town and back before the sun sets. 

Every time I walk in this place, this faraway and beautiful place, I’m struck by the connection between location and inspiration. I write, I waffle, I sink into despair. Then I lace up my hiking boots, step outside — and the vast views pull me into a deeper truth. And that, I realize, is what I seek.