Each One a Poem
It was a weird summer, hot and dry. It felt like the end of an angry August in early July. Spring runoff had come and run its course before the end of May. The water was on the cusp of being too warm and the rivers were busy, the boat launches buzzing with the breathy whine of TRD-emblazoned trucks and Bluetooth speakers blasting pop-country radio. The cacophony of mountain-town wet hot American summer started to feel like the static of a crowded cafeteria.
We left the river to the swarms and hiked up to find solace. From the crowds, the noise, the heat. There is virtue in a quiet hike, but in head-high heath it’s wise to talk loudly. My dog, Hayduke eagerly forged ahead, while DJ and I talked about Townes and debated about whether or not carpentry and craft could be considered a subversive act. My constant check-ins with Hayduke served double-duty to locate her in the choked-in not-quite-trail and make our presence known to any potential grizzly bears.
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