I wish I could include the entire essay here, but I think I signed away first rights when I entered the contest. But here is a small tidbit:
"During a mountain race out on Knoya Ridge a few years ago, a young man collapsed and died. It was an overcast day in late spring, the air damp and moody. About thirty of us lined up at the start and ran through curved and wooded trails that slowly evened out the higher we climbed. Our pace slowed and sweat ran down our backs, and during one fierce ridge I leaned down and rubbed my fingers in the dirt and stuck them into my mouth, just to have something to taste. Up above the tree line the world opened and breeze picked up and there was nothing but silence and mountains and a stuttered line of runners."
|Knoya Ridge, with Beebs in the corner, hee, hee.|
|Spring hike up the Dome, near Knoya Ridge.|
Hope everyone is running, writing, working, hiking, biking or doing whatever else they enjoy. It's 65 and sunny here and I'm heading off for a run. Poor MM is back in rainy Anchorage, stuffed in a suit and tie and suffering through the Board of Fisheries meetings. Please pray for him.