The call....

The mountains seem to call me more and more each year. I am tied over in May, June and July with my bike, big white water, and the cast of the fly. 

 However come august the mountains begin calling, beckoning my presents. A longing, a ache, an indescribable urge comes over me and I start wishing, hoping, and praying for snow. Fall hikes are filled with “beta collection” for winter lines. My bike no longer becomes an escape but a means to train and prepare for the snow.

 It is the days between fall and winter that the majesty of the mountains is unveiled. As if every year she, mother nature, prepares herself for the rebirth.

 October brings sixty plus inches to pow mow with leaves still on the trees in town. The transformation over night is truly mystical.

I feel like the dreams of deep fresh snow tend to bring deep self reflection, thoughts of the why we are drawn to the mountains with such a strong conviction. The sense of connection. To be so far from anything and feel completely at home. There is no feeling quite like putting in that last turn on a ridge right before you come to the summit. The entire journey she whispered to you her story. Views rush into you as fast as the air rushes into your lungs from the top. The vastness of the white desolate world surrounding you is humbling.

As I grow older the connection I share with my mother nature grows stronger. With each adventure she provides me we grow closer our love for each other thrives. She never ceases to amaze with her beauty, pristine vistas, and awe striking power.