Every summer I try to get to the top of all the high places around Missoula. That’s the goal, anyway, some kind of unofficial checklist I keep in my head. Looking back now, I’m starting to notice fall creeping in early. Oranges, reds, even our own tree in the backyard is turning. It’s not even September yet. August is barely hanging on, and the mountains already got the memo nobody sent me.
On this particular ride I set out for Marshall Mountain. Or is it called Marshall Mountain? No. Hold on, let me look it up. Turns out it’s Woody Mountain. Woody Mountain is also bigger than you’d think, one of those climbs that keeps unfolding new ridgelines every time you think you’re close, teasing you with a false summit or two before the real one shows up.
I did make it to the top. Got some pictures, the valley laid out below in that green and blue haze, the river cutting through town like it has somewhere better to be. Worth the burn, worth the wrong name I’d been carrying around all along.
Now I have to get back to work, since I promised the CIO a three-week turnaround on a major application for the entire university. So how did I get into this mess. I’m still not entirely sure.
August 18th, Twenty Years Deep
Twenty years of August 18ths, from packing for Glacier Park summits to peeing blood on Bloody Dick Pass to finally learning that showing up is sometimes the whole victory. The mountains changed, the stubbornness never did.
Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/gds15hr7