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.
Finding a tiny powder window in Hyalite.
February. Montana.
But this is life, and mountains, and climate change. And you carry on, and you look for the glimmers.
Don’t you drink Outdoor Vino at the trailhead after a day of backcountry skiing?
Five wolves running the ridgeline in Yellowstone.
A coyote in Yellowstone.
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.
Rest in peace, dear Tucker.
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This post brought a tear to my eye Jenny. Hugs. I know how you feel.