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declined and pointed to the tsunami of rock above. It was the equivalent of standing next to a mighty elephant and taking a photo of its steaming pile of poop. There was just no comparison between the chimney and the rock face. It was simply too big to get in the viewfinder, and despite trying many different angles, I only managed to capture a mere fraction of its size and, as such, a fraction of its splendor. The local guy left soon after, leaving me to admire the site all by myself.
    Whilst sitting, I began to watch a vast flock of birds slowly ebbing and flowing in perfect harmony hundreds of feet above. It was as if they no longer were comprised of individual birds but were instead a single entity. Periodically, their poetic synergy would shatter as the birds scattered wildly in a panicked flurry, but despite my best efforts, I spotted no predators.
    By now it was dusk and as the sun began to set, it bathed the gorge below in a soothing orange hue that instilled in me a deep sense of tranquility. I felt so very alive and happy to be me, to be here and to be far away from England.
    Just two and a half weeks earlier, I’d been stuck in a job I despised, confined within that office prison. There I’d sat under the artificial glow of strip lighting entering data onto a computer screen. The monotony was mind-numbing. Working there, I’d felt my happiness slipping slowly away from me. There hadn’t even been a plant to look at for solace, no windows to offer temporary respite. I was a trapped animal longing desperately for adventure, for rapture, for nature, and to truly feel alive again.
    As I gazed out across the wild, rugged expanse of mountains that stretched to the horizon, it all seemed so very far away now. I was happy beyond belief to be exactly where I was, and my spirit soared.
    A soft wind hissed gently across the sand-colored rocks as I headed down, this time along a different path, which was far more gradual and went around the neighborhood I’d previously walked through. Near the bottom, I came across a small outdoor volleyball court where a group of guys ranging from about eighteen to thirty were dividing themselves into two teams. This procedure wasn’t going too smoothly and an animated debate broke out which seemed to be about which team would get the most athletic-looking player and which would be burdened with the one who looked like he’d eaten all the pies.
    I perched myself on a wall overlooking the court in order to watch the debate and reminisced on a similar situation in high school, when I’d been lucky enough to be chosen as one of two team captains. This tried and tested method of captains picking players from a line up was always employed to balance the teams out, and to throw in a bit of ritual humiliation for the fat kids.
    It wasn’t that I was particularly bad at sports back then, but more that I just couldn’t give a damn about them, especially since, at the time, puberty-fuelled growth had not quite kicked in for me, making games like rugby more than just a little on the uneven side. One day, though, when our much-despised pock-faced rugby teacher, Mr. Brown, was being evaluated by a school inspector, I decided it would be fun to mix things up a bit.
    Realizing there was little chance that a pupil of my reputation would be picked as a captain, I piped up with a completely out of character, “Excuse me, sir, can I be a captain please? It’s just I haven’t been one yet and I’d really like the opportunity.” Mr. Brown eyed me suspiciously and looked like he was about to refuse, but with the inspector standing next to him, pencil poised above his clipboard and staring his way through the tops of his glasses, he reluctantly agreed.
    My fellow captain, Rory, was first to choose from the line up and picked a brawny athletic type who replied with a confident nod.
    No such logic with my selection. I picked, to everybody’s amazement, most of all his own, Darren Hopton. To say that