Stars turned overhead. I had been spending the weekend at my Grandfather’s cabin in Nova Scotia, and he had agreed that my brothers and I could spend the night out on the lawn. Fortunately this wasn’t Los Angeles. If we had tried to sleep outdoors at home we not only wouldn’t be able to see the stars but we wouldn’t even be able to sleep from the noise that pervades every big city.
Grandfather had a small cabin at the edge of Everlake. Out on the lawn we could see across the star net of a lake to the backside of Scar Mountain. There was something cold about that mountain that gave you chills even thinking about it. The mountain rose over the lake like a dragon roosting on a kill and moonlit clouds surrounded the peak like a pair of great wings. Grandfather never let us go near the mountain so of course my brothers and I always snuck off the first chance we got on our yearly visits to try and climb the mountain. We never got very far, some trick of light made the mountain appear closer than it really was.

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