Chapter 5: An Interlude on the GDT: Banff to Mt. Robson

Chapter 5: An Interlude on the GDT 
Banff to Mt. Robson

Clearly I am handling some deep wounds, still. But that doesn’t mean I am not happy, or being present. Shit, being on the Great Divide Trail does not mean I am not processing what pains me. For months I have been spiraling in the eddy of the pain cave. Months I have been morose, pensive in a cycle bouncing off the tender walls of reverberation that inhibits me from moving forward. I have made progress, believe me. Just not at the clip my feet are walking. But I can tell you this, the route I am on is whatever I am on; whatever is is my path of life. 

During the 3 week interlude between trail, work, then back to trail, I welled up inside with something foreign to me, something non-programmatic, determined to surprise myself, inspired to the accept the change I cannot control. I felt I wanted to squeeze the liver out of me, to parch the bile from the spleen to relieve any and all bad taste. I felt the need to embrace growth, to sear my skin with furtherance, the scab of healing, a mold of maturity, the eye booger of sanity. 

I found that bright green light behind my eyes. 

I found that bright green light to my surprise.

I crept in with caution. I did not want to shape my reality to fit any emotional beliefs. I tiptoed forward to ensure my reality was real and that reality only reinforced my beliefs. Is this all part of the story, this doubt? I also did not want my reaction to events to be a form of self preservation where I would ignore my emotions. So, that determination to surprise myself to hold, invigorated me. I felt that to surprise myself I would be living in the moment the most I possibly could.

Maybe the surprisement mentality rose about from the freestyle nature of this route instigated by my granny’s death when I least expected the event to occur. Heeding the signs around me, acknowledging what I really want rather than falling into the same choices of a self-imposed suffering, I have to be proactive in my changing of the story, I must break my own confinement. I want my eyes to open wider as I find myself in places least expected. I want to act different, in a positive way. I am a man of symbols, of romance, sensuality, a penchant of ease into overindulgence. But I am a driven man. It is not always easy for me to not be so individualistic, machine like. Because of my fall for romance, overindulgence, whatever word or phrase that serves purpose here, I need things to be different. If I can do things differently than I usually do while maintaining my constant drive that won’t ever leave me, why can’t I keep surprising myself? I don’t necessarily need to change who I am. I just need to attain my goals differently. And, to chill the fuck out.

The route I am on is whatever I am on; whatever is is my path of life. The Whatever aspect, a personal journey, a route not meant to be published, going wherever I want, whenever the time I have, whatever the whim, the want, and need—this equation sums up the element of surprise. The quotients unknown really, no constant, while using environmental, familial, and deeply subjective factors. I guess I want choices and decisions made of necessity and to be instinctual rather than of obsessive planning or the need to have control.

This is another preface of Whatever, hyping up to get my goat, a tirade of focus. And, then I stop. Look around me, lift my head up from underneath my hoodie. Snow dabbed on the still life around me, the larch resembling skeleton hat racks, the outline of trail meandering in the continuity of connection as the plant life on either side became smothered in snow. The clouds broke up on Healy Pass. Exhilarated, we skipped along. Oh the beauty of the Great Divide Trail, the whole spectacular Canadian Rockies. This is why I flipped up from my continuous route north. To see the beauty of the GDT I could not miss. The flip decision surprised me. And it was worth it.

Atop Whistling Pass another squall moved in. We could see it shuddering across the valley after squeezing through the ramparts of the peaks of the western side of the valley and smothering the open air smearing our vision with a tantalized beauty. My heart raced with excitement, with a fervor of love only attained in the mountains during a moving storm. The next morning, damp and cool, we hitched back to Banff to avoid the soggy day ahead, the clouds obstructing our views of the famous Rockwall. 

I want to take a second, a break in scenery, to thank Pep for letting me hang around. The company really soothed me and took me away from my personal depths. He didn’t ask for it and I didn’t say much regarding those depths, but I felt like he carried the way and took a burden off of me. Whatever that means I am grateful for. I felt I enjoyed the Great Divide Trail more because of him.

The Rockwall did not disappoint. After a few long hours of pouring rain the clouds broke at Numa Pass. The Rockwall held an exhibit in front of us—the ramparts, the fortification of whatever was on the other side, the palisades of sheer steepness, the bulwark of intimidation. From our high camp we had a front row seat to the sunrise alpenglow on the rock screen. For miles in either direction the fortification angled on seemingly endless. It was very difficult to walk on in glee without walking on too fast. I didn’t want to miss anything or to walk passed the wall. I needed a people mover cycling over and over again, viewing the ramparts on repeat.

Then, we left it behind. The wall was gone. We slept in the park in the tourist hamlet of Field. Leaving early we scampered up nearly ~3500ft to Burgess Pass. Huge peaks surrounded us, across the valley beneath the hanging glaciers scarring showed the path of receding ice. We passed through tourists and rocky trail in the Yoho Icefields, the glaciers so close you could see the innards. Kiwetinok Pass felt isolated, away from the mobs of tourists, and starkly naked with barren and crumbling rock. The route down proved to be annoyingly overgrown but the fight was overwhelmed by the reward of being up near the icefields and the craggy peaks. We didn’t care much about the overgrown obstacle and tackle the route down with happiness. 

Eventually we made Howse Pass, which oddly held a clearing and signage. After all the overgrown paths coming up from either direction the clearing seemed ridiculous. Howse Pass held the sense that no official person, like a ranger or whatever, had been there in years. After a long day we finally stepped atop the bench of the Howse River floodplain. Extensive ribbons of milky water, murky with pearl, flowed within a wide glacial valley. Easy walking ensued and we felt eager to camp on the floodplain. The night started dreamily. Then, the wind came. Strongly the wind gusted and from inside my tarp I pounded in the stakes that needed extra pounding. I felt insecurely secure, a ship in the open sea, the wind howling, rain coming in waves. I yelled at Pep and asked him if he was doing ok. Lightning flickered mutingly, the thunder nonexistent. Under the electrical storm with the pulsing flashes warning the danger from the heavens above I continued to monitor and batten down the hatches as needed. Suddenly, the wind and rain stopped, the sky dead of electricity. Sleep consumed me from that point on. Feeling intensely fresh the next morning, we fought our way to the Saskatchewan Crossing, a resort where we would feed our faces like savage gluttons.

We encountered 3 high passes the day after leaving the Saskatchewan Crossing. So high above and in the alpine we picked our way between pass, basin, and pass. Such beauty, such starkness, such dramatic scenery...one of the best days on trail. We camped under Cataract Pass and watch the last rays of sun dance on movie screen of rock around us, the display churning out the spectrum of color over a vast landscape. The next day didn’t prove any different, our jaws frequently on the floor. That was the difference in this section, the constant jaw-dropping scenery. On the third morning we went for the 6-Pass Alternate. Pep gave me a pep talk in vying for the alternate with me being a tad nervous with potential soggy weather for the day. After the first pass, I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t have even tried the alternate if I had been solo. I felt pretty grateful to Pep for the inspiration. The view from the first pass was incredible. The Endless Ridge Chain stretched for miles. We could almost see the whole route from our perch, five of the six passes in sight. A long alpine valley expanded away from us, a high and vast meadow of bright green. After easy cross country travel a fierce and cold wind blew in, about halfway across the valley. The the curtain of rain and suddenly we were in the middle of an intense storm. We moved as fast as we could as the rain felt like ice pelting our bodies. The thought of retreat crossed our minds, so we headed for cover from the treeless meadow. Miraculously we found an overhang of rocks right at about treeline. We shivered under the overhang and watched the rain come in sideways. After about 30 minutes of shivering, but dry, we had a conversation about what to do. We thought about exiting down the drainage to get to the overgrown trail we knew was below. We also knew that that overgrown trail would be exhausting, very wet, and painstakingly tough. We ate a warm lunch, then popped out from under the overhang with the intent of retreating. But, funnily enough, as soon as we stepped out we opted to climb the next pass, which was low and simple enough and right there. Up the second, then up the third. We were moving! In going for the fourth the rain began to fall consistently again. We hovered under the cover of tall spruce trees. Anxious to get going, I had summit fever and wanted to keep going. Pep pulled back and spoke sensibly about the position we were in. The valley we were in by far was the best bailout option. Smartly we headed down off the high country. Pep led the way navigating through the thick forest perfectly. We ended up at the ford of the Maligne River but on the fortuitous side. His expert navigation saved up the grief of further wetness. After the long and arduous day we slogged on over to the Lake Maligne Lodge to dry out. The sun poked through and I sat under the white-painted ticket booth soaking up all the warmth of the sun. I closed my eyes and let the light turn my inside light red. I didn’t care, I could have died right there in the sun and would have had a smile on my face. As we sat at a picnic table, the evening creeping in, the owner of the lodge brought out 2 hot chocolates for us 2 soggy hobo hikers. I felt so happy I dipped in the maple cookies the owner also gave us into my cup of hot chocolate. I don’t think I’ve done that since I was 10 years old. We slept dry that night, and slept in the next morning as the rain sprinkled on our tarps. 

The Skyline Trail did not disappoint the next day. High above the valleys below singletrack meandered along or just under the ridgecrest, dreamland for a hiker where you can see miles upon miles ahead over pristine country, the gaze of a long distance travelled transfixed by the future of where you might be, who you might encounter, and where will you lay your head. And we laid our head near the town of Jasper which set us up for an early morning entry in hopes of a feast for breakfast.

I spent the long day in Jasper trying to figure out logistically my end point of this trail, as well as what I wanted to do. I ended up deciding on a Grande Cache exit. Since I was up here—why not! I loaded up with 7-8 days worth of food and we walked out of town under grey skies along a busy highway. Oddly enough, I surprised myself the next morning. I was going to end the Great Divide Trail at Mt. Robson, which had been my initial intention. I knew I had an easier exit back to Columbia Falls to reconnect with my route down south. Plus, I knew I needed as much time as possible to finish that route down south. I felt at ease with my decision. I knew it was the most right choice.

Brazil Nut found us idling by a stream coursing through green hillsides and tumbling down from the rocky peaks above. So energetic and positive, it felt great to have her beam of light infect us on our travels to Mt. Robson. We slogged through the muddy Moose River valley with the forest so saturated your foot sunk almost a foot through the spongy moss. We saw a blonde grizzly trot across a lush hillside across a valley, the bear’s rump stained with mud clearly visible from our distance. The sun light radiantly reaching with rosy fingers across the facade of rock, the Divide of light where one side is in shade, the other aglow. The Smoky River ford proved to be a challenge only hyped up. For us, not a big problem. 

Massive glaciers careened all the way to the treeline beneath the flanks and from all the cleaved drainages off of Mt. Robson. I slept heavily that night feeling ready for the next phase. The end of the GDT occurred but I just know I’ll be back soon enough to connect the route up towards Alaska and the Arctic Circle via feet or pedal means.

Here’s a quick synopsis of how I made my way back to Columbia Falls:

•hitched a ride with Pep to Jasper. A few beers there to celebrate and I got a ride with the same hitch we rode down with from Mt. Robson, which he dropped me off at the junction with Highway 93.

•a big, burly dude in a giant turbo diesel dually trailing a scrap trailer who drove with his hands awaving and puffing on a joint faster than a vacuum. I only felt scared once when he attempted to pass an RV as the RV cut him off after leaving a parking lot. He slammed on the brakes and the dually almost hopped up he broke so hard. He yelled as he passed: Fuckin Japs! 

•spent the night in Radium Hot Springs. In the morning I got a lift from an old dude from Winnemucca Nevada on a month long kayak road trip, his kayak tied to the roof of his early ‘80s BMW sedan. 

•after he dropped me off after an hour, I got picked up by a skinhead, rock climbing, off-the-grid living carpenter who was quite friendly. He got me within an hour of the border.

•next up, I got a lift from Cheston, randomly enough an aspiring PCT hiker. Young Chestin gave me a beer and got me down the road further.

•my hitching luck ran dry about 35 minutes from the Roosville border crossing. I called my homie Cliff who lives in Kalispell. In minutes he left and arrived in about 1.5 hours to my stranded rescue.

I am very close with Cliff. I consider him one of my best friends. After spending a fun night out with him, kicking it with his family, and planning for the next phase, we sat down for dinner the night before I was to leave. Every time the Kipp family has dinner they hold hands, linked together as a string family, and say what they are thankful for. Not necessarily a prayer but a belief and affirmation in each other. On the GDT I had thought about this moment, as a month earlier while scrounging through my thoughts and feelings on a shrinking family I had been sorting through my doubts of family. And now, strung together as a unit I kept my tears in. I said:

‘I’ve thought about this moment deeply for a month now. My blood family has shrunk to a point I do not know what a family is. But as I sit here with you all I realize family is more than blood. Family is friendships, connection, and community. And I thank you guys for that inspiration.’

Chapter 4: Fission and Fusion: Columbia Falls to Banff

Chapter 4: Fission and Fusion
Columbia Falls to Banff

What I naturally feel I should do is suffer, while what I want to do is enjoy myself. I am compelled to suffer regardless of the scenario. Yet I need to smile, and eventually, one day, the story I tell myself will change. The story has always been a convenience, a crutch, an ailment of sorts that justifies me in my harsh treatment of myself. I am aware this is an all too well feeling in most people, however, I feel my torment stems from something deeper. Couple that with my penchant for pushing endurance, the feeling is incessantly unending. Albeit similar to Sisyphus pushing the rock forever up hill in agonizing purgatory, I count each tumble down as a goal achieved. This gutted feeling is my drive. 

The narrative has always been there. This feeling of doing the abandoning, guilt driven by my selfish goals and soft heart. I do not wish to change the past. I simply think about how the story has not changed. When I am on an adventure I feel the freedom is not deserved, let alone earned. I think that is part of the reason I keep going, to disprove the notion I cannot live the life I so desperately crave. This fucks with me, turns a screw all up inside of me, gouging and gouging the steel tip to poison any inside flesh and taint the spirit. 

Really, it all is family related. From a skid row bummy father who left us before I was two, to abusive familial circumstances only enhanced by a victimized and traumatized mother, to having these vagabond thoughts in a weak family structure. I think I have cared too much, feeling so bad for others that I made myself feel guilty to leave. Honestly, no one instilled this in me. Although I understand the inadvertent and experiential affliction, I firmly believe I control my mental fortitude. 

The story has continued on in this adventure. For weeks in the beginning I couldn’t shake the depression. I thought it would go away like all the other times. I sank deeper and deeper into a depression while clinging on to the hopes and cleanliness of nature. My connection to others struggled, my intimacy hinged to a snap-shut while closing myself off to others, forbidding myself from feeling love. Paralleling this phase, my granny feel ill from a car accident. Her body broke down, then, eventually, her mind collapsed. Every time I walked into a town I had to pluck my strings of courage to disembark from my sunken swale to face the reality if my granny had died. I had striven for composure within a battered and dispirited heart that warped my bones and sapped my marrow. I walked into towns empty to try and fill myself up. 

Finally, thankfully, she died. That is truth. That is relief. Relief from enduring pain, giving the pain a final rest; that of which I’m predetermined to suffer through a self-inflicted story. Through her release I felt a banishment lifted, or at least an exhaustion of an exasperated story built and built over again. A stale truth had been lifted; the death of my granny provided an exit.

Truth(s), that which we tell ourselves, the sliver within the narrative that has basis for sensible reasoning; this matters regardless of the influence of a weird foible or an impressionable influence. There’s more, nonetheless. This is truth: I cannot live in a mundane environment constantly, burrowed in a normal life, a monotone drone of insufferable complacency and staleness—this I cannot ever forget. The falseness of truth lies in my insecurities. This is truth: I am not banished to hike in a loneliness drummed up from a story I have told myself. Truth is I am a vagabond, and I am doing what I am most compelled, most love, to do.

In the high lonesome, through Glacier National Park, in my own head stirring shit up, I just felt achingly lonely. Not the norm for me, but the longing for connection hung on me overwhelmingly. I thought of my granny, my mom whom two days prior experienced another death with her cat. I thought of my blockage, that which prevents me from being a good family member. This guilt is not only scarring from childhood, the reverberation of trauma, but brought on by my wont to wander. This is confusing, as I cannot find the words to elaborate any semblance of meaning. The truth is that I am sick and tired of the story I have been telling myself. Regardless of the past, or what I have created to protect myself—I am done with it.

At the Waterton River camp, I stopped. I stopped the self-indulgence. At the camp I fell into a crossroads with the others, with all the different paths and journeys, a blending of wavelengths. And we sat there: 1 CDT hiker, 3 PNT hikers, and 3 GDT hikers. All of us triangulated at a pivotal beginning of a journey. I recalled the first time I walked to this place, some 7 years ago. The feelings, the wishes and dreams, a happiness strummed through achieved action and a proliferated life, and the community I now felt a part of. All of this felt deeper than what I had experienced in a traditional family, yet that support was all I ever needed. I found my exit, and the exit existed as a bonafide traveler, a professional vagabond, my portal away from all the monotony and untruths.

Burn areas have always inspired me. By the stark and rawness of an exposed landscape, the fragility of a landscape barren, the wrinkles of time—acceptance, an embrace of the death and newness, of a petrified essence frozen in time forever; of a looseness where nothing is kept and all is taken for a brief moment until the till of erosion demarcates randomness. Then, the wildflowers sprout up lacing the trail overgrown amongst wood pillars scared stiff. The peaks of Blakiston Creek appeared ashen, glazed by a sorrow from thousands of feet up high, like something needed wet. I am in it, I thought. Quit the harping, I pleaded to myself. Stop over expressing the inability to be inexpressible, I jived on in a riddle. The Divide loomed over the burnt valley with dark skies above. I thought: push. The effort paid off and the wetness of an ashen heart prevailed, my glance fulfilled by a buffeted camp on a broad nose along an alpine bench. To the northwest the alpenglow shimmered in the curtains of drizzling rain, a chandelier of pink and purple light highlighting an endless chain of pointy peaks.

Gazing at the drooping sunset I felt as diffracted as alpenglow, dispersed like a diminished family. At least that’s how I was seeing the scene. A diminution of family compounded in me and I felt loss. I thought about pain, the loss of control within a small family, the continuity gone, the sensitive tenderness of relative isolation not only within a community and family, but personal length to pull away through wandering and intent of remoteness—I felt as diffracted as alpenglow over distant and rainy skies, porous and weak.

Then in Coleman it stopped. I found Shroomer and Coyote amongst other hikers at a B&B. I found the camaraderie of people who live on the fringe while rejecting the normalcy, a contrariness to a fissure within or from a small family, a fusion of coyotes. I found my community. One that I have neglected and refused to be a part of over recent years. Shit, I chose the lonesome path consciously. And now I welled up with spirit in yapping with Shroomer. Regardless of what I said, I knew he understood. Regardless of what I rejected, I understood him. Instead of bota bags we have backpacks, rather than motorcycles or hitchhiking across the country we utilize our feet, we scoff at politics and flow with the rhyme of nature; we are gluttonous, sensualists in a purest essence, and we strive for nonconformity—-We are the new Beats.

This is my community. My niche of a family. Acceptance. Right then and there I stopped fretting, I banished the inability of trying to comprehend what I couldn’t feel, or to understand something emotionally enigmatic inside of me. Plain as day, I needed to be present; I just wanted to walk. 

I found Pepperflake at a BBQ restaurant in Coleman. I knew him from the Pa’lante boys. I also knew he would be out here. We chatted a bit and left town separately. However, all of us thru’s met a clandestine camp in the forest along a forested road 20m from town. We had a slumber party that night. We made the woods loud with our clatter of laughter. Pep and I left early the next morning, and after a couple hours we strolled into the high country, a new world of solid rock alpine. Tornado Pass wowed us as Pep and I spoke about routes from various places as well as homemade gear. 

Awaken in dampness, the air hung heavy on the head. Sweat poured like a torrent, a cascade of salty water, as we hiked through overgrown yet discernible paths. The High Rock bragged for miles on our high left. Walls shot straight up and bridged the long rock expanse between beehive domes of coarse limestone. The scenery entertained us during a tough day. Really, I needed company. I was thankful for Pep quite soon enough. 14 years younger, patient, quiet, a pensive air of confidence with an amorous gaze at the high and technical aspect of the alpine. He reminded me of a mountain goat. He also reminded me of being 28. That time in my life, that specific age where I finally started to really put myself first and started to try to achieve my dreams into a reality. I was thankful of his company because I was envious. Because I hadn’t left earlier way back when.

The language I even use shows scarring, even when feeling admiration for another human being. Really I mean really living my own life the way I want. At 28 I became utterly exhausted of being responsible for how others felt around me. The number pulls a numbness out of a recall, a strung out playback of frustration, a boozy clarity of sacrifice drowned in pity, guilt, and this weird sense of need that people depended on from me—-the story I told myself, the script I pulled from in a corner seat at a dingy red-dimmed bar.

But now I can see the conservativeness of experience over the years. I can see the age shelved for future use. Not like myself, I felt I had been taking an unusual and awkward approach. I still pushed myself extensively, however, I felt a downshift in in-the-moment decisions, like my fuck-it impulse was gone. But, I felt empty, the trigger pulled with no ammo, gun shy and stupidly wise. I lacked confidence which I knew stemmed from all the emotional build up I could not comprehend. I felt dumb. I thought with the gumption of nostalgia, a wondering iffiness of what would happen if I took a giant leap across a river. Nonetheless, I felt inspired. Nevertheless, I prohibited thinking.

Pep brought out the weed. I smoked, puffed, and let the mind quell the unending cog machine. I walked hard all day, but finally slept. I relished in the wiseness of youth, or the youthful nonchalant and carefree attitude. I dug it. I forgot things. I looked up more. Smiled more for no reason. I thought of nothing for the first time ever. I didn’t care if I was wet, sore, tired, hungry, or whatever.

The days went splendidly slow, the long hours of the north, the enhanced day of light only oozed along over a dimmed arc in the atmosphere above. I lost track of time because of the dimness. Midmorning still felt like early morning, while midevening felt like early afternoon. I drowned myself in a dreamscape. The insouciant weed pursued utter indifference. Not a care in the world, I fucking surprised myself. I drugged on without even thinking about it.

Clouds strung like curtains over rocky spires, draped over aretes like gloved knuckles, clung over pinnacled limestone walls like an invisible mass pressing down on a trembling earth, a gravity of mist, a spackling of stucco over drywall, the mouthy ridgecrest sprung tightly open like a beartrap with the teeth absorbing all the alpenglow, a panorama of light on ma nature’s organic movie screen of savage teeth, a film noir of romance. Ominous, the light display was beautifully ominous. The brush shook the water droplets off in the wind like a wet dog. We absorbed the water, our surface tension layered in our rain gear, a worn tarp flapped with the force of condensation. I felt like a cat, uncomfortable with the force of wetness. My body a surfactant, a detergent that which cleanses yet I do not want to be cleansed. But I observe Pep. That age of 28. He has guts when I didn’t while I am not sure where my have gone; he absorbs the water rather than repels it.  He is the boat that won’t sink. I am the submarine that is coming to the surface again after drifting in the depths again.

How conservative and cautious I’ve gotten over the years, really, in relation to the young Pep. How really what someone may call wise is somewhat a fear based off experiences fallen from time worn. Frankly, shit hurts more as you get older. Choices, decisions, so freely dredged from a deep and intuitively curious place, a wont to roam, to starve, to thirst, to quiver, to fall... Getting wise is a form of protection, a life of less withering in the sun, a desk job, a futile existence...fuck that, let’s rove and be wild; no cage of sensibility can hold me in. I want to live free of that fear no matter what oldness I keep. So, here’s to never being wise, ever.

Let’s get this straight, I do not see a lot of myself in him, however, I am envious of his path, his unwavering confidence, and an uncogged mind. I am seeing that being wise may be a subterfuge for being unconfident. And I see that in Pep. Strident in strut, brash in decisions yet patient when shit gets hairy; his self-awareness and inward self unapologetic to anyone, his standards held high to his oneness.

Part of the story we tell ourselves is pushed along from behind, informed by old fears still scarring a heart. Part of the story is protection, a self preservation from further scarring. Part of the story is nostalgia, a time stamp on what was felt, a road map with an artery branched with nodes of connections. But now... Looking in the past is like farting. When I fart and I look behind, I just don’t want to see shit. Justified by a lingering smell rather than attached to an accident that smears my understanding of things vented, of something that has passed, an ephemeral event; I want to understand the past, and when I look back I merely want to smell a fart rather than to see shit.

Finally striding into the ski hamlet tied to Banff, Sunshine Village, we drank pitchers of strong beer. What I am good it is not stopping, pushing. This which I am explaining has been unwisely unfamiliar to me made more sense with an arrogance of an unnecessary pitcher of beer dangerously nostalgic in feeling earned. To share something with someone, a pint, one pitcher, a grand meal...yea, that mattered more than my personal over indulgence on self-flattery. Even at this age of 42, rather than 28, I am still heavily and deeply insecure. As I drowned a pint I felt the need to still free my dirt. We stumbled to a tunnel connecting the ski lodge to the gondola that dripped from cracks in the large culvert to the cold concrete from the dreary rain outside. We succumbed to the dark and the booze, the covers we needed to sly away unnoticed and secretly sleep in the tunnel. I laid down dreaming of being a kid again. Of being 28 again. And of waking up the next day and ruffling my beard to a mess, wiping the cold out of my eye, feeling the mischievous pride of leaving the tunnel furtively sneaking off down hill, and resting in a place where my older body would relish a rest.