Sitting on the ridge of Sugar Loaf Hill and facing out toward the Southern Alps stretching across the horizon far as the eye could see, feeling the wind that swept up from the valley gap between the ridge I was on and the ridge that I was looking at, tasting faint trace of snowberry in my mouth that I had eaten on my way up the steep face, I realise that was a dream come true.
I had in many many imagination played this scene in my mind in the past. It was no surprise therefore that watching the vast mystic expanse of the mountain country I felt familiarity, not surprise or alienation, though I very well knew that I had never been to that place in my living memory.
