Nestled deep among the thinly settled northeast, modest in light of the world's greater ranges, the White Mountains sprawl; only their highest peaks, beaten bare and snow-capped, pierce the warring currents above – the world's windiest. Far west are North America's high plains, host to massive buttes sprawling among the formidable Rockies and Tetons; stark and forbidding – found to be hostile to all but the most determined of settlers. And who has surveyed afoot the majestic Andes, Alps, or Himalayas? Spanning such vastness touches the grandest nature of awe – a defining often deadly.
Who sees the fogs of morning rise
adorning tree lined hills;
traversing through a sun-blessed dawn,
abiding autumn's chill?
Wending on through stately pine
Where winds still whisper songs sublime
Who sees with eyes of budding wonder
those splendor-mantled mountain sides;
whose dappled foliage, arching brows,
has oft' a craggy face to hide?
What breathless grandeur fills this view
Above fair meadows draped with dew
Who feels the bracing clash of airs
traversing spires so high
that silver ribbons, rivers seem
and naught but eagles fly?
What trees remain are withered now
Before the gnawing winds to bow
And having climbed yet higher still;
Every season's vigor chilled –
Survey below a spacious land
Consider then purveying hands