Just you and me

Can we climb a mountain together? 
Just you and me? 
Our feet tired and swollen and dusty after trekking miles long. We stop by the rivers and soak them. We collect smooth stones and you skip them, once, twice, three, or four times, but I don't. I could never skip a rock. Our backpacks are weighed down by branches and the books we decided to carry, small johnny jump-ups pressed between the pages. My hair sticks to the sweat on the back of my neck, and your hands and face are weathered and brown. We watch every sunset and every sunrise. Starlings whistle above us. Sometimes we climb the trees just to watch the stars and constellations blink or to glimpse the moon a little fuller, a little brighter. I recite poetry aloud to you, my voice echoing through the seemingly endless length of woods surrounding us. You read from Dickens at night, next to the campfire while the warmth crawls across our faces and dries the tears hot on our cheeks when tragedies strike the fictional. And in the dawn, oh in the dawn, we wash our hair in the lightest of light with lavender soap and river water. Often we tremble with exhaustion, but more often we relish the long days spent in the wilderness and forest and adventuring. Wanderlust is fulfilled. The earth becomes our backyard. We are discoverers. 
Can we climb a mountain together?
Just you and me?