The Snaz

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Last Lap

I like to get to the pass last.

The evening run. The decide-to-go-at-the-last-minute, pull-your-shit-together, jump-in-the-car, ignore-the-four-on-the-clock run.

It’s usually a solo mission. Morning runs are great to share, the world is fresh and fun. At the end of the day, you ponder. Wonder.

I often go to the south side of the pass. Especially now that it’s so deep for dogs. Glory is a wallowfest for Pepi, and it seems just a little less than fun for him. So we go south. The woods.

Quaint, I know, but I like the picture, its agelessness. Man and beast on a late day sojourn, out for a fresh gallon or two in the lungs.

The temperature is zero. Cold enough that I wonder why no hats come all the way down over my ears. Because I hate tall hats. I wonder what my earlobes will look like when I’m 75. And the rest of me. Hopefully, battered but happy. Or better yet, freakishly young.

The skin up the road, legs briefly irked by the odd pattern. The drop into Powder Reserves. Too short, a sweet tease. I pull in to the drainage floor, turning to watch for Pepi, who’s thrumming down the packed trail. The world falls silent. Perfectly still save the snow falling against the trees. The sight is transfixing, so much motion and silence in unison.

Up the Edelweiss skin track. The first skin track I ever followed in the Tetons? It’s possible. Wish I’d written it down.

There’s an element of stupidity to my evening walk. Break a leg and I could be hating it. My mind toys with the image, the blackness of night and Pepi staying close as I lurch through the trees. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I fall off it.

I unzip my jacket and put the iPod on shuffle. Play.

Dave.

In case you missed it, I did a microblog on Dave Matthews on his birthday last week. He was 41 on the 9th.

I fell in love with four girls to the music of the Dave Matthews Band. The jam band I could stand. More polished than the Dead. Not as kooky as Phish. Not as crunchy as Blues Traveler. And the best drummer in the world. Heartfelt music a dude could love. And I do. Did. Do.

I wonder what any of those girls think of when they hear Dave. Not even sure what I think. Every song is replete. Every song is a soup.

Dave’s been hard to listen to in the last year. Until tonight, while I skin up through the snow-laden forest, the waning storm, the fading light. I am too content to be peeved by Dave’s repeated shortcomings as wingman. I just climb and listen, and wait for that flash to come back, that thing in his music I first fell in love with, as I was falling in love with this life and the mountains and those girls.

So why would you care to get out of this place, you and me and all our friends, such a happy human race.

The top of Edelweiss is bare and cold. Gusty, as always. The light is almost gone. Pepi sinks to the snow to chew the ice from between his pads. I hurry ripping my skins, narrating my progress, in song, to my dog.

Near the bottom of the run, I call for Pepi. He doesn’t come. The snow is thick and he’s tired. I call again. And again. I foresee myself skinning back up, skinning all night to find him. I call louder. This isn’t like him. I turn and he’s 50 feet below me, on a well-trodden skin track he discovered in the trees by my run. He stares at me through the murk, his little clown face inscrutable. “How long were going to let me yell at you?” I say. His tail ticks back and forth.

Back in town, nestled in the snug heat of the truck, we pull into the Wendy’s drive-thru. I order a double burger – one patty for me, one for Pepi.

I resist dipping into the bag on the way home, even for a fry, which Pepi doesn’t like and won’t eat. We’ll be home soon enough, man and beast, back from a victorious hunt.

Quaint, I know, but I like the picture.

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