The mountains cut up through the clouds Saturday declaring their enormity. From the top of International, the backcountry lay under a soft fog bank. It’s lovely out there on bluebird days; postcard-like. You can see into infinity. Peaks after jagged blue peaks, like cardboard cutouts in a school play. And, finally, there’s a base.
But it’s warm and wet and all cement right now. The legs can only take that kind of beating for a day.
So on Sunday, we went into the lower woods. I took a couple of runs on the squishy bike, but mostly tromped around trying to coax my camera into taking decent pictures in the dim light. And I watched Billy do what he does on a bike—get all stylish in the air; take a swath of trees, piles of logs and dirt, and turn them into his canvas for hours upon hours of breathless artwork. Only to let it all fade into the creeping dusk when the girlfriend is cold and hungry, and ready for home.