My wind-chimes sing in a cacophonic symphony as gales banshee howl down from the high peaks of the Roof of the World. Tibetan bluster in my own land furthest west, like Morocco. A girl in a carnival mask once told me we all have our own Africas, much like my concept of Kashmir; one's place in the world. Home. Perhaps it's funny, or at least interesting, that my Africa, my Kashmir, is in its own Sahel, far and away from the Mother Land. Although, there are those who would say this is an example of a paradoxical nature I supposedly have.
That girl in the mask? I about wanted to marry her for that bit of prophecy, but perhaps we were both drinking, and maybe even to excess, at the time, although I've always found that a chickenshit excuse. It would later play out it was just her mask talking, not her. Aside from that, she lacked the fortitude to contemplate whiskey with me, but that's another story.
This is a day I normally go on walkabout if the meteorological omens all line up. Having gales that blow with the intensity of a maelstrom, I find myself not so inclined. Out in the Backcountry, the avalanche danger is so stupid-high a mere sneeze could prove fatal, and finding out the exact limits of my mortality does not sound amusing, despite the itch to go wandering.
With a resigned sigh and big gulp of tea, I realize I'll be holing up for the day. The sky is deceptively clear, but that otherworldly choir of wind and watching the trees and my prayer flags sway reminds me of why I've not bothered getting my pack ready. There are documentaries I can stream and the latest issue of National Geographic arrived in the post, making this my favorite day of the month, despite the bluster. I reconcile there will be other days, when the meteorological omens will line up in a more conducive manner. It will be those days I'll be out walking, and a message can be left at the beep.