My north-bound friend turned around as we split to head off our seprate ways. He quickly turned around and called "Hey Thirst! Before it gets cold, man, sleep on top of a freaking mountain."

Celebrating the reccomendation, I unfurled my sleeping pad on top of Little Bigelow Mountain. I dozed off on the barren rocks yet instead of glowing stars to light the world, the blaring sun lay directly above me. Two hours after mimicing the reverse of a candy fireball’s transformation from lava red to blank white, my formerly pasty thighs were not so thanful of my mid-day nap.

I guess my friend had a different time of day in mind for his suggestion to sleep on top of a mountain.