Winter here in the West has not been, by a skier’s standards, the finest. But nonetheless, we’ve found cold and snow, sporadically, with effort, and with great bouts of spring-time warmth in between. In a forest service cabin, on the mountainside, in the depths of Cooke City. It’s been a winter of mourning for a hound dog that kept pace by my side for fifteen years, and so I must say that everything in this landscape feels slightly off, tainted with grief–both mine and others.
But this is life, and mountains, and climate change. And you carry on, and you look for the glimmers.
You stare at photos as if they might be all that’s left, but the truth is they’re just a metaphor for what stirs your heart.