Soapstone

A mostly cloudless Fall day awaits those who slowly awaken this morning. I jump start my motor and head for the Uinta Mountains, ready to ride the fury of Soapstone basin.
Small groups of hunters gather around camper trailers, drinking morning coffee huddled next to a burning fire.
I dress in bright red to avoid an arrow or trigger happy bullet, and the pedals turn.
The inclines are deceptively steep, and my water supply is quickly drenched. My lungs scream to be ripped from my body cavity, and filleted upon the open ground. I cough and wheeze as the autumn leaves laugh.
I push past the pain, blackout the cries to stop, and let the momentum carry me upward. A lone red tail hawk soars and circles above me, it’s tail shining brightly.
My beacon of safety is a sign from the Great Mother. I heed the message, climb the last hill, and look over the great Soapstone Basin.
Then with a fury of adrenaline, I fly down the backside of Mother Nature, whipping past the trees in a frenzy of untitled joy.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?