The day has been warm--unseasonably warm for December in the Rockies. All day long I watched bright blue skies shine through closed windows as I worked away on my various tasks and assignments. Girls in shorts carried their packs across campus and sometimes passed the windows in front of me, momentarily dragging my attention away from my work.

Now I read through folder after folder of applications for the university's new provost. We've already cut three-fourths of the files, so I must read more carefully to choose my top recommendations. Each applicant has sent us numerous pages, and their words often blend together on the page. I look outside at the darkness through the window across the hall, and think about a hundred places I would rather be. Foremost among the hundred places is where I had spent a day just over a week ago....

Cross country skiing along the edge of the lake. Rich brown sand, three inches of powdery snow, crusted ice, deep green water. Tiffany wasn't far behind me.

We had come up to the Bear Lake Training Center for a ROAD Worker's retreat, comprising all the student groups that dealt with alcohol and drug abuse prevention, and we represented the Student Health Advisory Committee. Yesterday, I had given a forty-minute presentation on AIDS. Not like I had known a whole lot about it. Not like I had really had much time to prepare. Not like I could turn down the assignment, anyway.

That's what had been going on for the past few months. I suppose it had been going on my whole life. Anxious to stockpile precious experiences, I had gotten in over my head in numerous wonderful opportunities that I couldn't refuse, and my leisure time had all but disappeared.

I knew I'd have to do something about it to lighten my load, but for now, I was getting by alright. The less time I have, the more precious it becomes. That's why I thought of taking advantage of this weekend retreat to ski with Tiffany.

"Are we on ice now?"

"Yeah. There's probably three feet of water below us."

I knew it was a lie. I knew that we were only on the last smooth area of sand before we reached the water, but I also knew it would be more fun if Tiff thought otherwise. By the expression on her face, however, fun didn't seem to be the only emotion she was feeling.

"Maybe I'll wait for you back here."

"Don't worry, the ice is plenty strong--you could drive a car on it!" To show her, I jumped up and down on the snow as hard as I could. "See?"

Tiff watched for a second from beneath her black visor and hood, smiled, and skied out to the edge.

We followed the edge of the lake to the South, watching the wind skip along the green surface of the water, watching the gray clouds move along the lake to the North. We had skied less than a mile when we noticed that the dense clouds had begun to move in our direction.

"Better be getting back to the car, eh?" The darkness of the storm drained the color from the water as it approached. In its place, a deep gray polluted the lake's rough surface. The wind was whipping snow up and out over the lake as we turned and started back to the car, which we had parked at a rest stop 150 yards from the lake's edge.

It wasn't long till the clouds had surrounded us. The wind blew harder and the snow fell thicker, everything around us faded to white. All I could see through the storm was the edge of the lake, a bit of nearby brush, and Tiffany's black powder shell.

"Maybe we ought to stop and face the lake for a bit and see if this passes!" I shouted over the wind. At least this would get the wind at our backs. Things were beginning to get a bit cold for me. Tiff had prepared for the sudden storm far better than I had. Her shell covered two or three layers of warm clothing that I had seen her put on before we left the Center this morning. She liked to keep warm. Between two pair of socks, I knew chemical foot warmers were at work.

"Sounds good!" I noticed she had to shout a bit for me to hear her voice over the howl of the wind. With our backs to the wind, everything seemed less extreme. Facing the lake, the huge snowflakes seemed to drift comfortably by, in contrast with the streaks we saw them make in the air when we looked sideways at each other. We were definitely getting our money's worth of adventure now--enough to take care of me for a few days. Our ski tips nearly reached out over the edge of the water, which seemed to roll continuously away from the shore as the wind whipped it into tiny waves that must have become large white caps not too far away out under the cloud.

I turned toward Tiff and smiled. "Some fun, huh?"

Tiff smiled back, and I couldn't tell if the smile meant agreement or if it carried a hint of sarcasm. "Doesn't look like it'll be dying down any time soon, does it?"

It didn't. We turned North again and skied a little faster than before, both of us aware that our tracks were quickly being covered over by the snow and wind. As long as we found where to turn back to the car before it snowed too much more, everything would be alright. We missed the turn off, but realized our mistake thirty feet later, then skied to the car and loaded our skis in the back as the storm coated the sleeping bags and interior with a thin layer of wet snow.

Our car climbed over the seven-thousand foot summit with relatively no problem, and we drove forty miles through the canyon in four inches of snow. At home, we had a spaghetti dinner and talked late into the night.

Dinner sounds good right now, I haven't even had lunch today! Pushing the folders away from me on the table, I gather my things into my pack and exit the building. Outside, snow flurries fall in a cold breeze, but it doesn't remind me of last weekend's storm. Instead, I think about how the quarter has gone and the way I spend my time these days. I accomplish plenty, as my resume will reflect, and although that brings some sense of achievement, it doesn't bring the satisfaction that I ought to earn from the efforts it requires. Many things have changed in the past few years. Even in the past year and a half alone. That's how long it's been since I flew home from Taiwan for the second time and began my Master's program in English.

My first trip to teach English in the Orient had been inspired by a number of excellent motivations--among them, a desire to see the world before marriage or a career made it too late, to learn Chinese, and to earn more money than I had ever had before. The biggest reason I went, although I may not have been aware of it at the time, was that graduation was coming up awfully fast, and I had no clear idea of what to do afterward. The general direction had been well established for as long as I could remember--I'd continue in school.

My father had earned a Ph.D. in electrical engineering, my mother had just moved to San Antonio to work on a Masters in marriage and family counseling, and I didn't feel like my impending liberal arts degree and four minors had prepared me with any truly marketable skills. Choosing an area in which to earn a Masters would pretty much lock me into that discipline. There were too many attractive choices laid out before me, I was too afraid of making the wrong one, and I needed time to put off the decision.

By giving the first three reasons for going to my father, I was even able to convince him that I was making a responsible choice, rather than the shooting-from-the-hip sort of thing that I knew it to really be. Dad had always pushed responsibility as the ultimate goal in life, or so it seemed to me, and that had driven me even further from it. I knew that responsibility alone would never make me happy, and far more important things than the security that responsibility theoretically brings existed in my life.

Five difficult but wonderful months passed, and I flew to Mainland China for a three week vacation before returning home to school, my girlfriend, and other responsibilities. I applied and waited two days in Hong Kong for a Chinese visa, then boarded an overnight ferry for Canton.

Once on board, I tossed my things on a bed in my tiny cabin, then went up on deck to meet other passengers and try to find some traveling partners. The first couple I talked to seemed suspicious and nervous. They must have been novices at the third-world-backpacking routine. I walked to the edge of the ship, leaned against the rail, and watched the lights of Hong Kong and Macao slide gently by on the water's surface and disappear into the darkness of the Pearl River.

Twenty feet toward the front of the boat stood another couple. The girl was English, and complained to the American guy that at American universities, you could get a degree in absolutely anything at all--including logging. The American took her accusations with a laugh and defended logging degrees with mock conviction. By the time the boat reached Canton just after dawn, we had become a trio on our way to Beijing.

Flora was from London, and Matthew, originally from Viet Nam, now lived in New York. Both were students in the capitol. Matthew invited me to stay at his dorm at the Beijing Language Institute--the country's top language school--for the week that I planned to be in the city, and the week passed by all too quickly. One night, we went to a party at the Australian Embassy. Another, we all went dancing at Roxann's--a club in a German joint-venture hotel. When the weekend arrived, we hopped on a school-sponsored bus and headed for the Great Wall. At the Wall, fourteen of us hoisted our packs to our backs and informed the bus driver that we'd find our own way home.

By the time the late afternoon sun turned to gold and dropped behind the mountains, the group had split in two, and Matthew, Rosella, and I climbed down the outside of the Wall in search of twigs and branches to build a fire.

Night fell and found the three of us huddled close together in a guard tower, roasting large golden apples over a tiny fire glowing from a hole in the wall. When we ran out of fuel and the flames died down, we laid out our blankets and sleeping bags along one side of the tower, letting the apples' warm, sweet juices run over our lips as we bit into the soft fruit, alternately eating and sharing our favorite ghost stories.

This was living! I could do anything I wanted, and answer to no one for whatever choices I made. It had been years since I had found any significant number of friends who liked to run things in the same casual, adventurous way, and had the time and courage to actually follow through with such plans. The only negative thought that might have entered my mind as a cool wind blew through the tower all night long was that the week I had allotted to stay in Beijing had nearly passed.

We awoke late the following morning, opening our eyes reluctantly and turning to watch the sunlight crawl in through the windows and slide slowly across the stone floor. After a breakfast of hard bread and cool water, we again loaded our packs and continued along the Wall to the East. A few miles further on lay a station where we would catch a train home to Beijing.

At the station, we worked together to interpret the train schedule, and found that the next train to Beijing would come by in six hours. We set our things down on the concrete platform and waited by a small fountain until the clouds rolled in and the rain started to fall.

Sprawled along wooden benches inside the station, each of us lay silently, lost in our own thoughts and listening to the cadence that the heavy rain hammered on the tile roof over our heads. A short, stooped man wearing a traditional blue Mao suit would occasionally poke his head in through the door and peer at us, but we had grown accustomed to such curious attention and simply ignored him. Matthew finally broke the demi-silence.

"Shaun. You've gotta stay in Beijing and study with us."

It wasn't the first time he had said it. I had heard the request at least ten times over the course of the week. My usual response was to answer that I couldn't. After all, I had school waiting for me, my girlfriend, and plenty of other commitments I had already made. But this time was different. The weekend trip had been a catalyst, and I couldn't resist the lifestyle and adventure that so appealed to me in this mysterious Never-Never Land. We were silent for a minute or two before I said what I had been thinking all along.

"Ya know? I want to!"

Within two hours of returning home, all variables had been carefully weighed, decisions finalized, plane reservations altered, and letters written. The following day, I became a matriculated student at the Beijing Language Institute and began a four month quarter that would change my life forever.

Not that I had any idea of how it would change me. Not that I can be quite sure even now. It may not have been the most responsible choice, but I had been reevaluating my values for a quite a while, tossing out many from home that I didn't understand or that didn't work for me, and was left mainly with the more attractive ones that I had developed over the years with my closest friends.

My friends and I had always known exactly how to make the most of every situation. We did well in school, enjoying our classes while narrowly avoiding grade cuts when we sluffed to spend a day on the slopes. We always had important things to do, like rappelling into 150 foot deep caverns, SCUBA diving in mountain lakes, and spending lazy autumn days asleep in the only ski boat on the lake.

But we couldn't stay nineteen forever, and responsibilities and commitments inevitably made their way into our lives. Below it all, however, still lay the same basic philosophy: all the responsibility, all the work and effort, was done with the sole purpose of being able to enjoy the resources it brought. If you had to give up the fun and enjoyment in life to keep up with your commitments, then they weren't worth it, and something needed to be changed.

No doubt about it. My life is shouting for a change. Unfortunately, with finals coming up and important meetings already scheduled, the change will have to wait. I had made the same goal over seven months ago to not take on so many responsibilities. That was in April, just weeks after a successful campaign to become a student body officer at Utah State University. Too late. Just too late.

I had always consoled myself, as I found myself working past midnight for too many nights in a row, with the thought that all my efforts would pay off soon as I was recruited by the school where I would complete my life as a student by earning a Ph.D. and moving on to a job that would again supply me with the time and resources to enjoy myself. Talking with the Graduate School Dean last week, however, had made me realize that the experiences that would serve me best for getting recruited were those that applied more directly to my chosen degree program. What did student government have to do with English?

I had felt the pressure of Fall quarter coming a month before the first day of classes. August had ended and forced me to realize that summer wouldn't stretch on forever. A sudden determination to make the most of the remaining twenty-nine days made me decide to ride my motorcycle to and camp atop three of the main mountain peaks surrounding my valley home in Logan, Utah. But when my brother offered me the chance to climb King's Peak, the highest point in the state, I couldn't refuse.

Climbing out of my sleeping bag hadn't been easy the second morning. Nineteen miles of picking my way along a steep, rocky trail had taken its toll on forgotten muscles and joints. Forty pounds on my back had added to the strain as I climbed steep mountain passes, rising above sparkling blue lakes scattered through green pine valleys, only to drop down steep gravel and dirt trails to yet another valley floor. Tired muscles grew sore, and a mile before we crossed a river on a log bridge and pitched camp in the dark, the pain in my left knee had made me fall behind the group, limping slowly and watching the steam of my irregular breathing rise in the dim glow of my flashlight.

The morning sun had been shining on the tent for at least half an hour by the time I convinced myself that my eyes could no longer remain shut and let me ignore the dull ache echoing through nearly every muscle of my stiff body.

I sat up in my sleeping bag, bringing down a light shower of cold water that had condensed from our breath inside the tent's thin fabric. A drop or two trickled down my back, making me catch my breath and shiver, removing any lingering doubt that sleep was over for the morning. I tugged on my hiking shoes and zipped open the door.

Winter comes early to the mountains. Already above ten thousand feet, my breath stood out in the morning air like one of those mouth wash commercials--"if you could see bad breath...."

A thin layer of ice covered the water that ran through the meadow next to camp. Hiking through last night's darkness, I had had no idea of where I would find myself in the morning, and the view that greeted me took my breath away nearly as much as the cold water that I splashed on my face from the creek. The swampy meadow stretched out in all directions and became a thick pine forest decorating the fringe of steep mountians defining the valley. Heavy snow drifts still clung to high ridges and ravines, creating sharp contrasts with the otherwise bare rock.

As the shock from the cold water revived me, I remembered that this was the day. Today we would set foot on the top of the world. I thought of the camera snapping and freezing our smiles forever, of piling up rocks and standing on each others' shoulders to try to be higher than anyone had ever been there before, of the easy laughter that would come once we had rested and passed the canteen around a time or two, of deep breaths of thin, thin air filling my lungs, cool against my throat, and of the deep satisfaction at having finished the ascent. I splashed water across my face once more, then limped back to camp to find my brother fanning a small fire to cook breakfast.

An hour later, hot oatmeal had been meticulously scraped from metal bowls, hard-boiled eggs had been eaten or fed to the huge jays that showed no fear of us, and we were ready to hike the final seven miles separating us from the Peak.

Securing a tiny padlock to the tent door, I lifted my day pack to my shoulder, loaded with a half-full canteen, a water purifier, two apples, and plenty of trail mix, then started up the trail behind the others. Clear, deep-blue skies filled the space between tall pines and steep mountain ridges, The sun had begun to warm the air. Even so, my light smile faded with every step and slowly became a look of pained determination. The trail was strewn with rocks, and I worked to avoid them with my left foot as I swung it from side to side, trying not to bend my knee as I walked. I had spent the time after breakfast stretching, trying to loosen the muscles in my knee that now screamed at me to stop and rest against a tree.

"You guys!"

It took all the strength I could muster to call out to them. The words weren't hard to pronounce, but I knew that in calling them back, I would have to admit that I could not match their pace, that I should not risk any further damage to my injured knee, and that I would not be joining them on the day's climb.

The three of them walked back to where I had stopped and asked a few questions, but in the end, could do nothing more than agree with what I already knew to be true and hated to admit. I wondered if they could see the disappointment in my eyes as I turned back toward camp to spend a relaxing day in the sun that I would not enjoy.

Whether they saw it or not, they each turned their backs to me and resumed the climb, looking back once from atop the ridge that then hid them from my sight. I left the trail and made my way to a cliff overlooking the rushing river where it gushed into the meadow near camp.

So close! I had hiked so far, had such high hopes and expectations, and now, was forced to give up, to recognize that the goal was too lofty, that I could not reach it. A bitter thought. Despite my efforts to hold them in, a tear or two dropped from my cheek, fell quietly through fifteen feet of cool morning air, and were instantly swept away in the rushing white water below.

More tears would do no good. I turned toward camp and tried to think about how nice it would be to spend a day in the sun, dangling in a hammock from two trees overlooking Lake Atwood, reading, thinking, writing poetry and whatever thoughts came into my head. Judging from the mountains that rose to either side and the lines on the contour map that I had studied this morning, the lake was less than a mile from where we had set up camp. At my own pace, I could easily make it that far.

Having reloaded my pack, I set out slowly to cover the mile to the lake. Three miles later, I realized that I was not stopping.

By then lake lay below and behind me, half hidden by the broad tundra-like meadow that surrounded me for hundreds of feet on every side before rising again to tall ridges and peaks. Thick grasses and occasional low scrub brush covered the frozen ground. Because so little dirt was present, no trail would remain traceable across the meadow, so instead, hikers or forest rangers had piled rocks two or three feet high at intervals of eighty to one hundred yards. Upon reaching each pile, the next would become visible further on, marking the way.

The weather changed quickly here. One minute, warm sunshine would pour down on my back, forcing myself to remove my light jacket to keep cool. The next minute, heavy clouds would have poured over the high ridges, lowering the temperature to thirty-five degrees, mixing lightning flashes and rolling thunder through the valley, or sending thick hail and snow flurries bouncing from the grass or swirling around my lowered face.

As the storms passed, I would again look up and spin slowly around to drink in with my thirsty eyes the miles of space occupied only by nature and myself. For as long as I can remember, something about wide open spaces has inspired me. Here, I had total freedom to choose which way to go, no walls or fences could restrict me, no one would be anywhere within miles to see or even care what I did.

Within three miles, only me, seven small lakes, eight hundred gnarled trees, nine hundred thousand blades of thick grass, and ten billion rocks of all sizes owned the cool air and warm sunshine. Even among crowds, I had learned to create an illusion of solitude by wearing headphones when I went shopping or sunglasses as I skated across campus. Here, I didn't have to pretend, and I loved the freedom to spin in circles as I walked, holding my arms out like wings while taking in the scenery, or to shout out loud, listening to the sharp echoes return again and again from nearby slopes.

The time alone gave me time to think, to speak out loud to myself and to sort out the ideas and problems inside my head, working to find a sense of balance between the many demands on my time.

The summer had been cold, even for Utah. Maybe that was why I hadn't spent more time hiking alone or camping or sailing on Bear Lake. Maybe that was why I felt like I had so many things stored up inside that all came gushing out on the tundra now. At any rate, I would remember this and get out more often, despite any cold..."What the...!?"

The staccato sound of twenty-five thundering hooves shattered my silence and privacy, crashing down all across the meadow. I spun around, fists half raised and ready to run, searching the tundra for the source of the noise. The crashing echoed from cliff to cliff to cliff, but I couldn't locate the cause of the commotion. Standing alone amid the noise and the emptiness, the skin on the nape of my neck tightened as adrenaline flooded into my veins and heart. Nothing. No horses, no elk, nothing moved. Then I understood.

As the last year's snow slowly melted, rocks shifted and slid below its weight, occasionally being pushed to the point where they tumbled down the mountain side.

Erosion. Evolution. Change. In time, it touches everything. I raised my eyes to the cliffs and scanned for the falling rocks, but by that time, they had stopped, and the crashing was no more than a soft rumble drifting dreamily away down the valley.

The meadow ended at the base of a pile of rocks where the trail rose three hundred feet above the timberline. At the top, a sign announced Trail Rider's Pass, and I knew I had made it over half way to the peak. I left the trail and made my way through large boulders to a small lake, maybe eighty feet across, where I pumped cold water through the filter into my canteen. With my canteen full, I didn't return to the trail, but made my own way down into the next lush pine-covered valley. Not only would this be a short cut, but going my own way, following no trail, forced me to notice my surroundings more, to enjoy them more, to think and plan carefully, and to make the best choices about which way to go. My own way. The best way I knew how. A choice and a habit too deeply ingrained to ignore.

The lowlands were beautiful. Frequent streams cut through the unmarked path I followed, forcing me to sometimes chase their bubblings and gurglings for quite a distance before coming upon a place where the current ran fast and narrow enough for me to jump across.

I followed the risings and fallings of the ground across such streams and over rounded hills topped with giant boulders forming lone sentinels overlooking the area. Sometimes I stopped and leaned against these monuments, tracing their cool, rough surface with my finger tips, memorizing their intricate cracks and curves. To some, I gave names. Cathedral Rock. City-on-the-Hill Rock. School House Rock. Far from the beaten path, there was no telling how much time might go by before the next person would pass by to appreciate these rocks. Standing next to the giant statues reminded me that the road less traveled, while it may be better, could be lonely, too.

I had set my pack atop Picnic Rock, pulling myself up and sitting next to it to have a short lunch of apple, trail mix, and cool lake water. Staring down at my dangling, swinging feet, I saw a footprint in the mud. Strange. There could be no mud here--it was too cold. As I looked closer at the tread pattern and size 14 imprint, I realized that the print was not mine, that someone else had also stopped at this same rock, perhaps as recently as a few weeks ago. An hour earlier, I would have been disappointed to find the track invading my sense of uniqueness and ownership of the area, but now I was glad. It felt strangely reassuring to know that I was not alone, that other people also left the marked trails and discovered their own way to wherever it was that they were going. And so I finished my lunch, keeping pleasant company with a footprint that no one else would ever find, that no one even realized they had ever left behind.

I also began thinking about the peak, hoping that my family would still be there when I arrived. Although going it alone can be exciting, victory needs to be shared with someone. Someone with a memory. Someone with a camera. Someone with whom to talk about it five years later, to smile and remember the weather and the rocks and the electricity that buzzed and hummed between boulders when thunder bumpers scraped the ridges.

My short cut carried me through the lowlands quickly, and I began my way up again, along smooth benches gently sloping toward the peak. Rejoining the trail at the base of the final ascent, I met the first strangers that I had seen for fifteen miles. They smiled as we exchanged greetings and talked for a few minutes.

"How much further to the peak?"

"Another hour or so, including a lot of boulder hopping at the top. That's it right there."

As I looked up at King's Peak, I realized that I had been heading toward the wrong one all morning long. My memory of the contour map hadn't been perfect, I had taken a different route than I had planned, and I now understood why I hadn't met up with the other members of my group.

The afternoon had grown late. An equal amount of time lay behind me, since I left camp, as before me, before night would fall. I knew that I should turn back now, that I should do the safe and responsible thing, but I couldn't. I had come too far to give up now. I said good-bye to my two new friends, pushed the thought about returning to camp to the back of my mind, and continued on.

Fifteen minutes passed and I reached the first snow drift. I kicked my toes in hard and climbed over the thirty foot pile of white stuff. Twenty-five feet beyond the drift, I spotted another sign.

Anderson Pass!! This was it! The final pass! The last landmark before the peak. The sign told me I was at 12,778 feet above sea level--leaving only another 750 to go. Gazing up the ridge made only of boulders stacked steeply on top of one another, I saw another dozen people climbing and descending. I had no idea where they had come from, and only assumed that we had taken the long way.

The second thing I noticed was that they were all so happy! Everyone had plenty of time to stop and share stories of how the rocks hummed and buzzed when the clouds passed nearby, or how they had dropped their car keys at the top and spent hours digging down through the rocks to find them again.

I wondered what made everyone so friendly, thinking about the lack of that competition that thrives back in civilization, about the idea that scarcity seems a ridiculous idea amidst endless miles of open space, and about how they most likely hadn't hiked nineteen miles yesterday and seven today.

There was something in their manner that I desperately wanted to understand. I wanted to stop and talk about the weather and the mountains and where they were from and why they had come to Utah. But the sun continued to drop and the peak didn't come any closer, and I said good-bye again and again and continued on up the ridge.

Three hundred feet above Anderson Pass, I encountered the second snow drift. I stood in the hard snow and looked out at the world. To the South-East, I could see the rivers I had crossed and the trail leading back to camp. To the North-West, I looked down into yet another green, sweeping valley. This was at least the ninth I had seen in two days of hiking, but every one still looked unique. This one had sloping edges, and in the distance, the pine covering looked soft, comfortable. I looked down at my fluorescent hiking shoes in the snow and thought about my knee and the approaching evening. Climbing among the steep boulders brought back some of the pain that had disappeared during the hours of relaxed, easy hiking.

For the fourth time today, I told myself that I had to turn back, that I could not safely reach the top and make it back to camp tonight. For the first time, I listened to the voice of reason. I stood alone on the ridge, free to choose whatever course of action that appealed to me, knowing too that my stranger-friends would only give me words of encouragement if I chose to chase the peak, and I couldn't do it.

But I was so close! So close I would almost do anything, even risk walking all night back to camp, to make it. It could be mine, complete with humming rocks, the view of a lifetime, the feeling of accomplishment to justify my entire summer, and I couldn't.

I realized that there was no use holding out longer for the best option--there no longer was a best option. Either way had its pay offs and its costs. I wished for someone else to be there with me who could make the decision to go back, to say no to the goal that lay less than five hundred feet above us, but the decision was only mine.

Slowly, I made my way down the ridge. I stopped for a moment along the edge, where I could see for miles and miles in nearly every direction, memorizing the view--three-fourths of the view that I had worked for all day long. Strangely, I felt peaceful. Here I was, giving up, choosing to abandon a chance to stand, for a moment, on the top of the world, and I felt fine. No regret, no disappointment, not a drop of bitterness.

I took a deep breath to taste the thin air at 13,000 feet and continued my way back to camp. As I passed other pairs of hikers along the trail below, I smiled and laughed and noticed that the muscles around my eyes were no longer tense as I told how much further remained to the peak.

The hours passed quickly as I made my way down the benches, through the wet low lands, over the pass, and across the frozen tundra as afternoon shadows fell over the lake and the evening star appeared above the mountains. I limped along steadily, sometimes singing to myself, sometimes stopping to scribble down a line or two of poetry next to a huge boulder set on a small hill.

With no moon, dusk fell thick and heavy, and the trail became harder and harder to see as I reached Lake Atwood. Just as the deepest darkness of the night set in, the warm flicker of a campfire twinkled dimly between the trees. Dinner was ready and steaming hot, and sitting down on a rock had never felt so good.

When the others had retired, I sat before the campfire for another hour, listlessly staring into the glowing red embers, stretching tired muscles, and replaying the memories and ideas I had found along my path throughout the day. Tomorrow would also come and go, I knew. The nineteen miles to the car would pass, and all that would remain would be a few aching muscles and a collection of beautiful memories.

I sit at my desk and watch the snow fall outside my window. It's two weeks before Christmas Eve, and the colored lights flash off and on in my window as I finish the day's homework and press the off switch on my computer. Tomorrow will also come and go, I know. The assignments and papers and committee work of the next two quarters will pass, and when summer arrives, I will no longer feel the fatigue in my eyes and the cramp in my fingers. Still....