How shall I tell ye what it is, to feel the need of a place?" he said softly. "The need of snow beneath my shoon. The breath of the mountains, breathing their own breath in my nostrils as God gave breath to Adam. The scrape of rock under my hand, climbing, and the sight of the lichens on it, enduring in the sun and the wind."
 
     His breath was gone and he breathed again, taking mine. His hands were linked behind mv head, holding me, face-to-face.

"If I am to live as a man, I must have a mountain," he said simply.

Author: Diana Gabaldon