There is a strange addiction in adventure that does not leave you be once you’ve had a taste of it. Like a nasty drug it sleeps under your skin and builds up a tension; it compels you to seek it out again and again, and again.
No matter how hard you try to shield yourself in your comfortable life, this little bug has a sting with a recurring itch. The feeling that is left in your body after a hard day on a mountain refuses to leave your limbs even after you’ve arrived at your castle back home. Painful, yes, but nostalgic.
Your fond love for a mountain cramp grows stronger with each day spent away from those rocky paths. The romance you shared with the pine cones, the fights you picked with the terrain – they never leave your mind.
You pack your bags again, and head off for more. Your torn shoes don’t stop you anymore, nor does your sweat bother you. Chill of the rain up on those mountains feels welcome; the rush of the river is your music. Never, in your deepest ponderous ventures, could you realize how the road will influence you so, until you actually set out and took it. Once you set foot on that road, you suddenly think what took you so long to come here.
Adventure – the wildest kind, out there in the jungles and mountains, in the primitive wilderness – brings your soul home.