Ouray

I slowly make my way along the high ridge trail, the tiny town of Ouray disappearing as I go.

I come to a memorial of ice climbers that have perished over the years doing what they love. Colorful Tibetan flags of remembrance float softly in the wind. I kneel and pray for a moment.
 The canyon drops steeply off on one side down into the river below. I pretend I’m a mountain goat with the surest of footing as I continue.

A bird playfully hops in front of me, as if he wants to play a game.

An abandoned cabin rests like a dying soldier on the battlefield, weary and broken down.

I take in all of these random thoughts as I make my way through the wild of the San Juan mountains, and the almost forgotten towns that lie in wait.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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