I have sweat glands, so if I’m panting I’m really hot. And tired. And, let’s face it, a little out of shape. Robin and I wanted to blame the elevation, but there were two faults with this theory: (1) we’re only at about 6,000 feet, and (2) I kept calling it evolution.
Which, actually, may be more accurate. Evolution is responsible for my inability to dash up the steep hillside rising quickly off the edge of Mestia. If I still had to chase antelope in bare feet and—according to Tea Party historians—flee from dinosaurs, this would be a piece of cake.
See complete Svaneti photos on my flickr page.