Forever Young
Master was behind a pickup truck on the highway today. There was a recently used Suzuki dirt bike in the back and a Sierra Club Sucks sticker on the back window of the cab. Above it, another sticker -- a silhoutte of a beautiful woman, seated, languidly leaning back on her palms. The boy and girl in the truck seemed to be having a good time. They were going ten mph over the limit, at least. What would you pay to have your youth back?
I wasn't there, Master didn't invite me along. The folks he was supposed to go mountain biking with were no shows so he went alone, on the Cresent Lake Trail, about one hundred miles south of Anchorage. Perfect weather -- sunny, pretty warm (~ 65), barely a breeze. The trail conditions were superb and with the exception of a few hikers he had it to himself. Literally surrounded by snow spotted mountains, cut by gorges and swift moving streams, and thickly forested, find a trail of this quality almost anywhere Outside and you'd have to take a number to get on it. Bears, sheep, moose, etc. are always a possibility here. Once at the top, the lake is an inviting place to hang. Today there was no one up there, making for a pleasantly karmic experience. Even the mosquitoes evidently had the weekend off. The lake water is so clear you could see dozens of Arctic Grayling spawning in the cut banks; twelve inch shadows struggling to keep their place and set their seed in a swift current that first meanders, before succumbing to a sharp gradient and gushing mountain gorges.
After Chair 5 for a halibut burrito and a couple Coronas (with a lime, always) Master's back home offering feeble excuses for not taking me along. He says, "I didn't know if you were in good enuf shape yet this year to run 13 miles, half of it ~ 1000 feet uphill." "Pfft," I said, "what you meant to say is you didn't know if you could keep up with me."