The cold was bitter and spiteful, the type you only know when you’re stood on the side of a mountain in winter. The wind whistled around objects, penetrated every warren, and licked up unwelcomingly around my exposed fingers, as I struggled with zips and mismanaged setting up my splitboard. I was standing just off theContinue reading “Times of Travel: Mt Kosciuszko”
Poetry, and other thoughts, by Darius the Mate
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