“Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,” isn’t that what poet John Gillespie Magee, Jr. said? “And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod/he high untrespassed sanctity of space/Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.”
The swish of arctic air swirls about us as we peer down through the angular, snow-capped trees of the vast national park below. Towering pines become little more than matches obscured in the sticky magic of snow below. A thin ribbon of highway divides the trees, punctuated by tin cars so small they are barely visible.
Can I from this vantage point of “high flight” so too “slip the surly bonds of earth?” Can I also reach, way up and “touch the face of God?”