A Night at the Cantina

"I want you to try this," she says to me, pouring the amber liquid into a glass. "It's whiskey, rock candy, and citrus peal. Supposedly, it was a formula for cough syrup."

"It's vile," I say taking a sip. "You better just give me that bottle for proper disposal."

"I think we'll put it back on the shelf now," she giggles, toasting me. "But I have another new whiskey for you to try."

After five months, she's started to figure me out. Good or ill. I do appreciate a bartender who drinks, even and especially with her customers. Otherwise, I might fear I was being poisoned.

She looks very much like a flapper girl, and, even though I know her given name, I'm tempted to call her Miss Parker. I don't, because Miss Parker was a cat of the gypsy's that turned out to be a boy. Of course the gypsy's pussy-cat!-would be male with a female name. That's just how things like this play out.

It's a Friday night down at the local watering hole. We talk about the week that's passed since we last all saw one another. There's musing of whether or not it'll snow. The weather seems to be an often-visited topic in the mountains.

Familiar faces come and go. It's because I brought a book. If I didn't, it'd have been quieter, and I'd have been staring blankly out the window, watching the lengthening twilight shadows. All in the name of a shot and a beer, I catch myself being social.

At some point, it gets brought up I'm Buddhist. One neighbor asks if that means facing Mecca, and I have to correct him. Another neighbor, a schoolteacher for money, eyes me oddly.

"I never said I was a good Buddhist," I say taking a sip of beer.

"It's just I never imagined you identifying with a major cult," the schoolteacher muses.

"Closest thing to my beliefs," I reply with a shrug, the cult thing not being insulting. After all, they have some great songs. Besides, a cult is merely the church down the lane from yours.

The man from Minnesota, who lives in the old hotel in town, comes in to do some open stage. His accent reminds me of the gypsy, and I want to ask him about finding me the culinary rarity of Canadian bacon. Again, I resist temptation. It's pointless to ask someone from Minnesota about Canadian bacon no matter how Canadian he sounds.

He starts up with a Neil Young song, the Canadian motif continues, though I'm the only one who notices. I turn to for my beer and notice a fresh tumbler of whiskey waiting for me. The bartender shoots me an innocent smirk.

"It's magic," she says.

"Praises be!" I take on my father's accent. "A miracle!"

I listen to a few songs and share a few conversations. It's only seven at night, but it's dark far too early these days, and it feels so much later. I tab out, say my good nights, promising to show up in a week. Outside, a few soft flakes of snow have started to fall.

Native Moments

Looking down at Naylor Lake. Squaretop Mountain stands in the distance...

I've been working on rocking the winter beard; thicker, and letting the scruff to vine its way further up my cheeks. There are a few more flecks of gray. So it goes and what are you going to do about it anyway? Gray hair doesn't terrify me as it once did.

There has been the joke that come late, late April or early May, I'll shave it all off and be baby-faced for a week, thus giving me a reminder of what my chin looks like. See, with the exception of a few periods, I've worn a beard since I was twenty-seven. The last time I completely shaved it off, the bruja said I looked like I was twelve, but taller.

***

The other night, after dinner, sitting back with a relaxing glass of red, we were listening to the Grateful Dead. It wasn't until recent years that I could tolerate the Dead enough to own an album from them, and, nowadays, we have a few, and yet we don't smoke weed-it interferes with the drinking, you know. The Dead, along with folk/Americana/bluegrass, and reggae are the soundtrack of these mountains. Perhaps we have truly gone native.

"Imagine if someone would have told you ten years ago that you'd be staying in, reading a book, and listening to the Grateful Dead," Sabina mused. A long-running game between us.

Early November, ten years back, I just found out my grandmother had an aneurysm in her chest the size of a softball, and might live six months, if she didn't get surgery and just die on the table. She did opt for surgery, because she was my grandmother; a tough old broad who was going to be in charge of her own fate, and not the other way around. She died three months later. I got a tattoo in memorandum.

Early November, ten years back, I was trying to understand how a bright-burning relationship had suddenly drifted into a cold void that made interstellar space seem tropical. Like Joe Strummer, I wondered if I should stay or should I go. Perhaps I was just overreacting, and she'd come back, as it were. Maybe I knew better, but wanted to be wrong.

Perhaps me ten years back, depressed and confused, would have heard of sitting in a one-hundred thirty-three year old house high in the mountains, sipping after dinner wine and grooving to the Grateful Dead and figured fuck it, why not?, after all, it wasn't like there was a lot to lose. Maybe he would've scoffed, thinking such a state unlikely. It could be he would've said not yet, because whatever intangible he was looking for, that, which had drawn him into the greater metroplex in the first place, had yet to be found. But once it was found, he'd be gone so fast his pants would have to catch the next bus out.

When it comes down to brass tacks and bedposts, it's kind of irrelevant. The me of ten years back is alien and distant. The mental exercise, whilst amusing, is akin to trying to imagine what the me at twenty-one, or even eleven, would think of me at forty-one. Those after-images may be aliens, but we share similar features and a string of memories and experiences which would shape that monster that stares back at me in the mirror. The aberration that spits these words out into ether, either, and or.

***

My neighbors got to see me in the closest thing I have to a suit the other day. See, we were burying one of our own. The only time one should wear a suit is when seeing someone go to the altar, into the ground, or, perhaps, some unfortunate moment in front of a magistrate, like a murder trial-or so I've heard. Anything else is the pompous try-too-hard that inspires murder thoughts or drug addiction, if not both in the same instance.

Two of my neighbors noticed the anarchy pin I wear on the left lapel of my fine pinstripe jacket. One commented I wear anarchy well-I'm pretty sure that was a compliment-and the other told me of all the old political buttons she had from the sixties and seventies. I mentioned that my anarchy pin, like the Free Tibet sticker I have on Old Scratch, is the closest I come to advertising my politics.

"Once a punk, always a punk," Sabina said with a sly wink. I cocked an eyebrow in her direction, but said nothing.

After all, what's more punk-rock than the mountains? Living where I want to, how I want to, with the person I want to is its own bold statement. High-powered corporate executives jerk-off like ugly apes in humping season to this kind of success. You can see it in their eyes when they come up for vacation.

We knew the deceased peripherally, but we are better acquainted with her mother, and that's why we went. Still, we were subjected to empathic overload, as there was not a dry eye in the place. Even the neighbor giving the requiem's voice crackled with emotion, and when the preacher-man's voice breaks, the shit gets real.

The wake was at the rathskeller of a restaurant down-valley. Because of our peripheral acquaintance with the deceased, we bowed out. There were some ruins we wanted to explore and my daughter was up. This was the closest we were to get to hanging out for her birthday.

After a hard-scrabble and hard-won discovery, we had cha'i at Miguel Loco's shoppe. Stories and the marvels of how quick the kids grow were exchanged. My daughter left after a dinner of wild rice, roasted potatoes, and buffalo chicken legs. I sometimes felt like I was being a little clingy with her, but I just saw a neighbor bury one of their babies. Perhaps I was justified. Maybe I was being simpy. It could be that, however unlikely, I might be a little more sentimental than I let on.

***

I reacquaint myself with the concept of upper and lower lots. Summer and winter. Snow has come to our Sahel. This early in the season, cramp-ons and gaiters are advisable. In perhaps another month, snow pants and either skis or snowshoes, depending upon one's preference.

It's possible I could've driven to the upper lot, but I do not regret playing it safe and parking lower. After all, I go solo trekking a fair amount, thus taking a risk when I go on walkabout in one aspect. I saw snowshoe tracks, which I found absurd; the snow was too hard-packed and not deep enough. There were bare muddy patches where the sun shone through the trees. As much as I want to go snowshoeing, I know I must be patient, and my patients is formidable.

I found a rock outcropping overlooking a mountain lake to stop and relax. The alpine sun was warm upon my shoulders. It was profoundly quite. As I walked, the only sounds were that of my breathing and my boots and poles crunching against the snow. There was not even the song of wind. It was as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

Looking out, I meditated upon perceptions of success and how successful I perceive myself. I thought back to that memorial and the thing, which is said any time someone walks on; enjoy the moment, because when the number's up, it's up. Trite, but so very true.

I could go on one of my solo treks and never be heard from again. We could all get hit by an asteroid the size of Pavarotti's ass tomorrow and it'd be lights out. Even the wise cannot foresee all ends, but that's because there is no future, just as there is no past. There's just this, the moment. Everything else is memory and jack-off fantasy.



This song makes me think of living in the mountains, though, I'm not sure if it's because of the title or the instrumentation...

Days of Bitter Strength

Okay, it's their most poppy song, and I lack ganja to fully appreciate this band, but the lyrics speak profound truth.Besides, I'm sucker for a touch of Grey...

I was at the local watering hole early in the evening on Día de Muertos drinking lemonade and reading the bible. Some might argue, in context, me saying I was drinking lemonade and reading the bible means I was having a pint of stout beer and tumbler of whiskey. Even if such a baseless assertion was true, both libations would've been locally made, and if I'm going to be a locavore, I'm going to keep the shit real. Bordering upon surreal.

"You ready for winter?" The man sitting next to me inquired. Outside, flurries of soft flakes wafted down in the manner of soft down feathers and willo'-the-wisp.

"'Ready' has very little to do with it," I replied. "It's November; winter's inevitable." 


We talked about trails; ones he Backcountry skis and I snowshoe. My eyes would drift outside to fading light, watching the snowflakes dancing upon the wind. I caught myself smiling bittersweetly. Simultaneously I look forward to the coming season and dreading it.

Superstition dictates that the recent holidays of Samhain and  Día de Muertos are the times when the veils between the lands of the living and realms of the dead are at their very thinest. On those days, they touch and maybe even kiss. Maybe with a little tongue.

November in our Sahel is when the veils between seasons, between light and shadow, are at their thinest. Hours, both in terms of sunlight and professional obligations, reduce. Things slow down. It's colder.

A contemporary of mine despises the month of April. I wrestle with November, when my reptile zen and crippling depression crush up against one another like glacial ice across bare rock. The direct sun is gone by mid-month and I always remember Thanksgiving as the last holiday with my mother before those last seventeen days in the sickhouse. The bruja and her unborn babe died this month, and one of my neighbors has just been introduced to the macabre of having to bury one her babies. It was strangely flattering that she asked me for Buddhist prayer for her recently departed daughter. 


Both my daughter and father have birthdays in November. Thanksgiving, for all its personal melancholy and socially expected gluttony, is the time I am most likely to see my brother, sister, their spouses, nephew, and niece. Trails, even the whore ones, become less crowded, blessing me with deeper solitude, even when only a little ways from home.

Some of the first real snows fall in November. Sometimes quite viciously. As I've watched the first flakes fall, coating the high peaks, I've caught tings of excitement, visions of snowshoeing dancing in my head.

Sabina's birthday is on Boxing Day, and, in the years we've lived here, have gone snowshoeing to celebrate it, much like we grill for mine. This birthday is a big one, and we mean to snowshoe to one of the Tenth Mountain Division Huts and spend the night to mark it. The snow means a new adventures on several levels. I find myself barely able to wait.

November is this time when we cross the veil. Into the darkness. Into the cold. Into the snow. This is the way of things here in our Sahel. I fight to maintain my equilibrium, knowing, despite my psychic scars from this time of year, this is the way of things. One must have the dark to appreciate the light, and light without shadow is blindness.

A touch of Grey, if you will...

It has been a chilly mountain autumn day. A thin dusting greeted me upon waking. The high peaks have been muted by phantasmal curtains of blowing snow refracting the pale sunlight. There is a bite to the breeze, which made my fleece and beanie a good idea when I wandered the Bull's Head.

I looked west, toward the Roof of the World, seeing the snow clouds churn. Despite myself, I thought of Yuki-Onna. The seasons were changing before my eyes.

"Are you ready for winter?" I was asked.

Fucking bring it...

Tiny Treasures

There was a certain harshness to the breeze and the growing curtain of cotton-gauze white and phantasm-smoke gray to the west that disinclined me from wandering into the Backcountry. More to the point, up onto the tundra. Of course, I wanted to get out. The question became where.

Sabina had a book come in at the library, but had obligations to attend to. So, I took one of my favorite local trails the two miles down-valley to get it for her. It's not the first time I've walked two miles, if not more, just to acquire a book. I even contemplated getting a cha'i at one of the local coffeehouses.

Although, in those past lives I remember and you do not, there was not a six-hundred vertical foot elevation change on those walks, and the wildlife of a city-those villains, vandals, and vagrants-was far more threatening than the thought of a mountain lion finding my aberrant tall and lanky ass even remotely appetizing. Even in the depths of starvation. So it goes.

It'd been quite awhile since I'd walked the trail, and it was like playing ketchup with an old, old friend. Part of me chided myself for not wandering this route a little more than I had. Briefly, I wondered why I'd not, but that answer played obvious as I advanced along the uphills at the speed of owl feathers; I'd been off exploring. Collecting stories from places I'd either never been or had seen maybe once before.

It could've been said I was collecting the small treasure of a story even as I walked a familiar local favorite trail of mine. Why not? Years and lifetimes ago, I told a dragon of my acquaintance there was a story in everything. Perhaps that is profound cosmic truth, but I think my uttering it was simply a case of being far too impressed with my own intelligence and dragging a friend along for the ride.

The coffeeshop was closed, but the library was not. It wasn't like I didn't have the fixings for cha'i at home, and those slowly advancing western clouds seem to give context to such a beverage. In the interest of doing a loop and having a bit more of an adventure, I opted to take the trails following narrow-gauge railroad tracks. It was there I encountered a few railroad workers cutting down dead trees by the tracks for firewood. Our exchanges were pleasant.

Going up the six-hundred vertical did not take as long as going down. Queer, but the terrains of the respective trails were different. I was given a fresh perspective upon some of the trails within walking distance of home. Perhaps that was a lesson, a story, and one of the tiny treasures I acquired along the way.

Another tiny treasure; a little trail booty to hang up on the House of Owls and Bats. Oh, happy day...

Generations

It was one of those deliciously perfect autumn days. Clear and mild. The sun shone upon the snow of the massifs of the high peaks in the countenance of finely polished ivory. The breeze, whilst crisp, wasn't biting, and helped to keep us comfortable.

Milarepa is five and a half years old now, but is still that spazzy little puppy I picked up from my parents' farm all those years ago. Whistler, four years younger than my daughter, makes it a point to prove he is the canine definition of active senior. In the view point of my own species I have started to enter into middle age, although, my two quadrupedal companions could be forgiven for thinking me immortal.

We only went as far as the third major water-crossing. I wanted to make sure Whistler could make it back without either needing to be carried or completely broken. He laid down in a grass patch at my feet. Chevy's home-sentencing arthritis first manifested after a fourteen mile round-trip walkabout a few years back. Milarepa frolicked in the snow. I watched them both and smiled at the sky.

I endeavor not to antropomorphize, finding it to be one of the more offensive forms of hubris. We are what we are; canid and primate, yet a definite bond exists between us. Maybe it could be called friendship. Perhaps it's something else entirely, which defies any language in any tongue, real or imagined. There's a possibility it doesn't matter.

In those nameless moments, sitting looking out at the sky and thirteen and fourteen-thousand foot peaks that surrounded us, sunning in the cool grass, frolicking in the snow, perhaps the triviality of the barrier of species melted away. It was kiss of divinity. In those nameless moments, we were all one and the same, equal and one.

And perhaps there's some sort of poetry in that... 

Ghost Call

I have not spoken to you in almost ten years. There are distances I cannot cross and places my voice cannot carry. Yet there we were, speaking on the telephone as though it was just yesterday. You started the conversation the way you always did;

"Tell me what's new and interesting."

I was standing outside, across the street from my house, gazing down at the river. Warm sunlight danced upon the water, caressed my face, whilst gentle breezes played with my hair. I told you about wild mushrooms and our community garden plot. Walkabouts and the hounds.

I didn't have to tell you I'd moved to the mountains; because apparently you already knew. Sabina, someone you never met and never will, was a familiar name in our conversation. The book I published and the fact my mother, your daughter, died nearly four years ago were all givens. We spoke of getting together for dinner and I was grateful you didn't ask me for my opinions about the politics of the day. I doubt you'd have wanted my company for dinner then.

"I think the dogs want to go out," Sabina's half-asleep voice was jarring in my ear.

It was all gone in a flash; your voice, the gentle sun upon the river, the breeze in my hair. I was fumbling through the dark of early morning to let out the hounds. Bittersweet melancholy swept through my thin frame as I opened the front door to a crisp autumn day. It'd been almost ten years since I heard your voice and it was just as crisp and clear as yesterday.

"I got to talk to my grandmother," I whispered into the empty air. There might have been a smile on my face. It might have been one of gratitude.

Pale Sun, Pale Moon

A pale moon sheds its thin light across the summit of Sunrise Peak and highlights the avalanche chutes of the sheer slopes of mount Pendelton. As the season progresses, and the snows deepen, there will be nights that the landscape will be illuminated in the countenance of diamond and liquid mercury. On some of those nights, in the quiet stillness, we might go for a bit of a walk, marveling at the stark interplay of light and shadow.

 After a walkabout, finding new ruins upon a familiar trail-because we stepped off the accepted path-we had a shot and a beer on the front porch. A pale autumn sun had just dipped below the ridge line, and the valley floor became blanket in cool shadow. We mused how it was about a month away that we'll lose direct sunlight upon the house. That, for us, marks the beginning of winter. So it goes.

The clouds of the day gave the sunlight a checkered pattern across the mountainsides. The clouds of the night scatter the moonlight in phantasmal ways. I used to call nights like that Ghost Moon Nights, and when there was a Ghost Moon things seemed to take a turn for the surreal-even for me-but, perhaps I was looking for omens. Patterns in the chaos. The folly of youth.

It has come to that point in autumn when the light has shifted; gone is warm softness of spring and summer or the golden haze of aspen season. This is when the light becomes pale, stark, almost insubstantial at times. The casts of light that speak of snow and fires and breath seen as mist clouds and warming drinks.

I watch with a that fascination I have toward the movement of the cycles with all its magic, mystery, and koo-koo-kachu. It hardly seems long at all before just after the sun comes back that the light starts to soften once more. There is substance once more. The wheel keeps spinning whether or not you bother to pay attention, but it's within those small moments between the heartbeats that real magic happens.

Early Snow Walkers

From the ruins of the Illinois Mine, off the 730 Trail...

I woke to snow and mist with a bit of a growl. Making my morning tea and prepping nine bean soup for the slow cooker I wondered where I might go for the day. Part of me questioned even leaving the house. There was a small part of me that considered vegging in front of the 'puter, streaming documentaries.

That notion was quickly dismissed. I know me. Even when it's been sub-zero out, I get cabin fever, stepping out for at least an hour. A saying I came across recently that's become a mantra to me;

"There's no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothing."

Amen and/or a woman to that...


Some trails I'd thought of trekking were either Dry Gulch or Grizzly Gulch. The weather got me to reconsider. Certainly, I had boots, gaiters, and layers. It was the accessibility of trail heads in the snow. Whilst at the House of Owls and Bats, the snow was only sticking to the grass, both trails were further up-valley. At ten-five and eleven-five respectively, the snow accumulation might be quiet different.

Besides, Dry Gulch is right by Loveland Pass, and the last time I was up that way I had an interesting encounter with a snowboarder. It occurred to me it might be a better idea to hold off until it was at least proper snowshoeing weather. Or at least when it wasn't so mist-shrouded so high up that myself and any other potential wanderer have a better chance of seeing one another.

After a breakfast of leftover jambalaya, I got my pack together. One of the many grand things about where I live is I'm in walking distance of five trailheads, not mention the warren of paths following the narrow-gage tracks down the valley. I'd not really gone on those trails much lately, opting to explore newer ones.

With Whistler in tow, I struck out up the 730. Because of my mother's death and my father's move to the greater metroplex, Whistler has some amount of separation anxiety, a recent manifestation of which included him running down the Road looking for me and a good samaritan getting him back home.

Now, he's going to be fifteen in January. About a year ago, I learned the hard way he cannot climb about with me or go on the longer walkabouts. Be that as it may, he can still go on the shorter wanders. The whole time, I kept checking on him.

"You okay, lo jen?" I'd ask him, and he'd chomp his approval at being able to hike with me. "You're doing great! I'm proud of you."

Going from ninety-one sixty up we became vividly aware of the difference altitude can make. The snow started to stick to the trail itself around Cherokee Gulch-between nine-eight to ten-thousand feet-and the low-hanging clouds obscured the high peaks. There are those who might lament the perceived loss of views, but, and I often tell travelers this; in the mountains of Colorado, you don't get a bad view.  

It was a different perspective, being within the belly of the clouds. The softly falling snowflakes against the last vanguard of of golden aspen was striking. Below, I could see town shrouded in a phantasmal gauze like a child's play set seen through the haze of a half-remembered dream. There was the occasional grumble of traffic along the Road, but the image of such was often obscured by drifting curtains of gray.

We didn't go all the way to the end of the trail, but to a point just before it narrows. This was twofold; the narrower parts are single file-at best-across scree, and Whistler's equilibrium is not as it used to be and the thought of ice. Also, we'd not visited a particular set of ruins in almost two years, which required a side jaunt up an overgrown side trail.

It was within this ruin we had water and snacks. Whistler chomped his approval at going on walkabout and I heaped praise on him for how well he was doing. I have little doubt he'd have walked with me to the end of the trail and beyond if I kept going. There was a look he gave me, and perhaps I antropomorphize, but it seemed to say;

"The day I don't want to walk with you, dig a hole..."

Two intrepid travelers taking a break on the trail...

Autumnal Muses and Adventures

When my daughter and I went on walkabout up Kearney Gulch, I noted, quite excitedly, that our footprints in the fresh-fallen snow were the first bipedal ones. During the antiquity of the mining days, it was said a dragon lived here. One neighbor told me the Irish miners believed you'd see the Devil, what for the scent of sulfur further up the gulch, a motivation he had to seek out natural hot springs. We saw neither, but we didn't really go looking for that. We were seeking an adventure.

Whether or not any of those tall tales were true seem irrelevant. It's not a well-known trail outside of the locos. There's no map. When you get told of it, it appears you've been truly welcomed into the tribe.

Oh, fuck yes. Not bad for a misanthropic non-joiner. Strange luck.

***

A week before, Sabina and I went up to Steamboat Springs. She'd lived there for a season some twenty-five years ago and I'd never been. My impression was that of if Estes Park and Breckenridge had a baby. Frightening, but at least it wasn't Vail; contrived, devoid of any funk whatsoever. After all, you gotta have the funk.

The autumn colors were striking, though I didn't like the sulfur scent from all the hot springs. Flippantly, I can thank or blame Dante or Milton for that. Of course, even on a weekday, it was crowded. Leaving to check out the two-hundred forty foot waterfall named Fish Creek and picnicing from the tailgate of Old Scratch with a bottle of wine was preferable.

***

In our Sahel, the autumn colors, though late, have been more muted. Wind and snow have stripped some aspens, but, by early October, they're generally bald anyway. As I drove up to the summit of Loveland Pass I took note of the colors of rust and khaki against the snow and evergreen. It's been a queer year, but every year, every moment, is unique, and that's the beauty of it.

I'd wanted to walk up along the north ridge, heading vaguely in the direction of the Citadel, over the ski area itself. Almost immediately, it became a bad idea. There was more snow and ice than I anticipated, and I didn't bring crampons-on a twelve-thousand foot north face after recent snows? What was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn't-and, on the fledgling snowfields, the early-season skiers and snowboarders were out, eking, scratching, and welcoming the incoming season. I'd come part way up the ridge when one flew over my head, no mean feat, given my height. He crashed into a snowbank off to my left side and I helped him out of it.

"Nicely done," I said, too genuinely impressed with his jump to really be cross with him.

"Whoa! Thanks, dude!" He replied, dazed and impressed by his own act of acrobatic insanity.

So, I headed back down, toward the southern ridge; the trails for Sniktau and Grizzly Peak. Walkabouts I'd done before, but there was less snow and I could leave the school-ditching teenagers and twenty-somethings to play with their skies and boards-their cries of joyous abandon following me for almost a mile-showing their bodies were still made of rubber and springs. I'd still be able to see the Citadel. After all, I was on the Roof of the World.

I walked up to a group of windbreaks at one of the trail forks between Sniktau and Grizzly. From there, I found a cairn to sit by and have some trail mix whilst taking in the world from its roof. To the east, I could see toward home, and on into the Front Range. Beyond that was a break somewhere far off, denoting down below and the badlands to the east. Looking west, I could see the Gore Range, perhaps even the Mount of the Holy Cross, though, I wasn't sure. Beyond that, somewhere past the great frozen waves of mountain peaks, lay the Great Basin and the rest of the 'Merican Maghreb. 

Heading down, I mused how my original scheme had been usurped. Mei fei tsu. The fastest way to make a deity to laugh is to have a plan and itineraries are for those who lack imagination. It was nice to improvise.

Back after I was first divorced and without any prospects of companionship, I felt depressed, battered, burnt to the core-but not broken-and bored. It was then, in that Edgar Allen Poe and Henry Rollins laced wallowing, I resolved to never allow myself to be bored. I've sought adventure in some form or fashion ever since; whether it was the neon novelty of the city or the magical mystery of the mountains. I've not been really bored yet. The day it happens, I find out what a bullet tastes like.

Shortly before reaching Old Scratch, catching once more the whoops and hollers or the early-season snowbums echoing across the peaks, I cut through my own snowfield. It was just a couple inches deep and I thought of snowshoeing. I thought of the ecstasy of those calls at the coming season. They had every reason to; it held the promise of a whole different set of adventures.   

Cyclic

Gentle breezes blew in the chill breath of the ending of a Tibetan summer. The beginning of a Rockies autumn. The start of an Andean spring.

All around me the cyclic wheel spun along the tundra path in rust and dunn. Diamond white and curious silver. Brilliant and fading greens along with brilliant golds and fire tongues of orange. Above me, above the highest of peaks, was that shade of blue that only our skies get; turquoise, which fades into the deepest of sapphire as it reaches into the inky black of outer space.

I walked without destination, just wanting to get into the high back country once more before it became a good idea to wear gaiters-at the very least- and carry snowshoes. To wear pants. I wanted to be somewhere that the calls of pikas disturbed the low song of wind, which was sometimes rudely interrupted by the low rumble of a jet engine. Places where I could stand and see for miles, and take note of how insignificant we can be, drinking in that beauty to the point of metaphysical intoxication.

Going without destination is the way some grand adventures happen, though, I had no expectations. A wise man once said expectations can lead to disappointment, but if you expect nothing, then, sometimes, you can be pleasantly surprised.  I loathe surprises, but knowing the Tao of Chaos, I know better than to expect anything. A paradox, to be sure. There are those who say-quite baselessly, I might add-that I am rife with paradox.

Walking can lead to meditation. I've known this since long ago, when I walked down below. So it goes.

It occurred to me that I've been doing this for a decade now; purging the words from my skull unto a spider's web of cyber. Not always here, of course, but in this type of venue. It was an interesting revelation. I still remember some of those first words, vomited out on a delicious autumn day;

"I somehow imagined I would have more to say, when I finally started, but the cosmic law of irony dictates otherwise. Mei fei tsu. In a way, it is almost funny..."

It is funny, when I think about it. Ten years on, I find I do not have the words to elaborate on purging words unto a spider's web of cyber for so long anymore than I having any words for impressive start. How about that? I walked then and I walked now. Different worlds. Different lives.

So it goes...

I found a rock to perch upon and take in the day with its cyclic countenance. The pale sunlight was gentle and warming against the bite of the high breezes. I was nowhere near the beginning or the end of the trail, but the rock vantage seemed the perfect point to turn around. I had neither destination nor expectation.

What I had was an open view of my tiny slice of world before me. A place I've always sensed is full of stories. Stories I mean to collect. My trek is nowhere near its end, and that is the grandest of all adventures.