We passed seven or eight other hikers, all but one looking like L.L. Bean catalogue models. Brightly colored, seemingly tailored to fit synthetics, concealing every inch of skin. Black face masks, titanium ski poles, and stainless steel crampons. Made me wonder if only the wealthy climbed mountains. Or mountains in New England.
As I was leaving the peak, I stopped to talk to one of the models, who, seeing my camera, asked if I wanted my photo taken on the mountain. I reflected upon my own clothing. A blaze orange hunting cap under my Tank Musem stocking cap ( A gift from Mark Schreiber), my no- longer white fleece lined denim jacket, partially melted by many Maine camping fires, my black and red checked lumberjack shirt that hung below my denin jacket and onto the tops of my wool pants, which looked sharp until you got to my boot tops, where my levis, worn under the wool pants, were peeking out. Finished by my leather Wolverine work boots.

I said, “No thanks.”