At one sunset performance in December 2007, the bass notes of Dale Rickert’s cello attracted large green tree frogs. Maybe 20 clustered behind the make-shift stage. Their deep barking calls made new improvisation possible. Dale’s father, Peter, joined him on gamelan, the frogs deep throated the beat, and the cello soared out across the valley. The honour of such star-lit improvisation dissolves the skins between body and earth. This is what landscape memoir is made of; this is where peace is born.