in roads

I went in angry, I'll admit, carrying my burden. Finding a new bulldozed road strung around the foot of the mountain like a noose didn't help. But we need to show the whole place, in it's gory and it's glory, not just pick off pretty (or for that matter, fetishise ugly) for commerce. I rarely use the word 'wild' anymore. It has baggage. For want of something better I prefer the phrase remote and untamed, but let's all stop rearranging the deckchairs while the ship sinks about us. In roads are being made. Things are grave. But there are still quiet miracles to be found. Even now, barely two hundred metres above that wounded earth. Last light on a crag barely ever visited, where wheatears dance and snowmelt chimes. Hope above the wreckage.

I'm tired of talk right now, the chat is cheap and it's making us sick. But and so we should tell the story straight and witness full - complex, nuanced, messy, awkward. That means gatekeepers too. They should be stories fit for our children.