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The trail looked the same. The bend of the pine, the soft give of moss underfoot, the sound of water somewhere just out of sight. But the cairn I had built last summer — seven stones, carefully chose … read more

On a windswept ridge, someone once knelt in the dust and chose a single flat stone. They set it down. Then another. Then another. By the time the cairn stood waist-high, the light had shifted, the wi … read more

On a windswept ridge in the Highlands, a traveler bends and lifts a stone. It is cold, slick with last night's rain. She places it on a pile already taller than her waist, taller than the man it was … read more

Somewhere on a windswept ridge in Scotland, I once stopped to catch my breath and noticed a small stack of stones at the edge of the trail. Five flat rocks, balanced patiently against the wind. No na … read more

There is a moment, just before a stone settles, when everything in your hands goes still. The wobble slows. Your fingers stop searching. The stone — limestone, river-smoothed, cool against your palm … read more