Just the drive, with the layers of pine trees climbing up the mountain in front of me, and the snow-capped volcano shrouded in a ring of clouds jutting to the sky above them, was enough to put a smile on my face and remind me what I love about this area.

It was the middle of winter, a blanket of clouds hovered above the trees, it was cold enough to see my breath, precipitation fluctuated between a heavy mist and a light sprinkle, the ground was muddy in some areas, and the trees were covered in bright green moss. It’s like a party is happening on those bare branches.

I opened my eyes and was surrounded by deep red shades of mahogany and rust, browns resembling milk chocolate and cinnamon, and hints of black brushed in long upward strokes along the trunks.

This week we explored an old cemetery, found a cove on a lake, and probably saved a woman from being eaten alive by mosquitoes.