Two weeks ago, we took a little trip to Mount Charleston in Northern Nevada. It’s only about 20 minutes from our house. I had no idea how drastic the scenery and temperature would be once we got there.  The air was so clean and refreshing. The evergreens and Birch trees made me feel like I was back home in Maryland.  As soon as we had driven as high as we could and thought we’d begin our trip back down, the sudden u-shaped road took us to a parking lot full of cars in back of a bustling log cabin restaurant. All I could smell was bacon and for some reason that bacon smelled better than any bacon I’ve ever smelled before. I don’t know, maybe it was the chilly air, the sound of people talking over breakfast, the view from the mountain top, the fact that it was a chilly 50 degrees, the fact that I was instantly taken to early fall back home, the yellow leaves from the changing Birch trees, or maybe it was just the combination of it all. Whatever it was, I smiled at George and couldn’t help but to close my eyes and take a long…drawn…deep…breath. We walked around the tiny gift shop inside of the restaurant until we decided to drive around a little more. We the spent the rest of the afternoon mumbling the words to songs we thought we knew, driving up and down winding roads and exploring the mountain like we were Lewis and Clark.