Every so often I’m fortunate enough to see the country of another people. To witness their mountain ranges, forests, glacial pools and architecture is to be the creature who sees and imagines how things might be, but we are at the same time the animal who remembers how things once were. Beyond the trails and vistas, before reading geologic maps or visiting museums, I find myself more concerned with the workmanship of our guides reclaimed wood home. A place makes more sense as a culmination of experiences. To understand his youth there, the names of local dishes and hillsides and how, traditionally, these things have fit together in a community. As much as trails, I’d ask for stories, voices of memory over a land. All too often I look to experience an idea, but that isn’t much of an experience at all if one knows what is coming. It’s the little things I hold dear. The old maps, the copious dishes served with surprise Jamon, the extra glass of wine when it’s pouring rain out, the look in someone’s eyes when he sees a place he has loved and can’t find the words to express it to those he’s with. Thanks for the laughs, memories and rides @raphamtb