The mountain is my muse
Artists, hang-gliders, and Charles Bronson can't be wrong!
Imagine a reality in which every morning, whenever you walked out of your front door or opened the curtains in your living room, you were greeted with the sight of a lonely mountain looming over the landscape—a citadel of conifers, mosses, and boulders. There are no other comparable mountains nearby to mute the visual impact of this towering peak. The mountain is a singular wonder, and it’s always there. Would you become so used to this mountain that seeing it would eventually fail to excite you? Would the mountain slowly drive you mad, to the point where you’re at a family dinner and you’re using a spoon to sculpt your mashed potatoes into a miniature mountain?
Or would the mountain open up a portal to a new dimension of ideas and inspiration?
On the eastern edge of southern Vermont, where the Connecticut River forms a natural barrier between the Green Mountain State and New Hampshire, there is a solitary and shapely mountain which has ensnared creative minds for years—with beautiful results for those of us who appreciate classical art *and* the art of death-defying spectacles.
