The Sun is shining and it's a lovely day. The phone rings and I have a good inkling of who it is before even picking it up. Lowell's voice says "The Sun is shining and it's a lovely day. How about a trip to Mount Davison?"

For the most part my time is my own, and so is Lowell's. We have made this pilgrimage countless times, about twenty minutes leisurely walk from our dwellings to an artificial hill that has the feel of a Celtic burial mound. The mound is located on the Northeast side of Davison freeway and the I-75; welcome to Mount Davison.

From here you can sit and watch a major artery of Western Civilization. The traffic seems to come in all directions at once in a deafening roar. The commanding view is magnificent. Like lesser gods, we sit with our brandy snifters and contemplate the wonder of it all, as Lowell's son Nick and my two dogs romp around us.
Not for the squeamish. Access to Mt. Davison is by foot down a dead-end street littered with burnt out cars and piles of interesting garbage. Then you have to cross a railway. I suspect neither the police nor the railroad security would be too enthusiastic about anyone hanging around Mt. Davison, but what the hell; there are more of us than there are of them.