The boy was always putting his dirty hands on a fence, peering through to see what lay beyond, whether that was beyond his backyard, to another country, or into the great unknown of the mountains.
Red Pine Lake was a 3-4 mile jaunt, mostly straight up in elevation about 1,900 feet. He needed new blisters to toughen up his nine to five workaday skin.
Valley views sparkle down below as he climbed higher and higher, the repetitive whistling of the same tune played over and over between his lips.
The lake shines like an emerald, the marmots scurrying about as they can anticipate a long winter forthcoming.
He scampers as well, running actually, down the mountain to gather some local garden goodness, and dives into the feast whilst massaging sore muscles.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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