When I try to think back to my earliest memories of the Alps, the thing that comes to mind is an advertisement for a very expensive-looking pen. It must have been from the early 80s, because I can see myself in my parents' house at that time. It's a composed image of hefty, shining black pen with gold tip, floating over a deep-blue nighttime image of a snowcapped Alps. As I write this, I'm realizing that I basically recreated that image of the mountain in the last spread of this book. It's funny how this happens with photography. An image, embedded in my memory, seeking connection to my current life - some way to make sense of the world.