I recently got back from a soul-rejuvenating trip to the snowy north.  I experienced 9 days of pure mountain bliss.  I could wax poetically about Canada and the size and stature of the mountains, the turning tamaracks and quaking aspens, the capped peaks and alpine lakes, the open road and limitless possibilites for soaking.  In fact, I will.  This was a much needed mega-vacation.  I got off of work at 6:30PM and high-tailed it as fast as Donna would take me to the mountains of Montana.  When I was about 5 miles out of town, still donning my scrubs and work badge, I was rudely interrupted by the flashing red and blue that I have become so fond of and accustomed to over the years.  As this (dare I say cute?) officer approached my forlorn truck, I rolled my window down and he asked for my license, registration, and proof of insurance.  And what in the cornbread heck!  I had only my license but lacked in the paperwork department.  I explained this to him as he shook his head.  He told me about elk migration, the rut, the danger of fast driving on country roads, the flagrant irresponsibility of not carrying the proper documentation.  I nodded over-eagerly in agreement.  But, I protested, I got off work at 6:30PM afterall and drove all this way to be back in the land of my love and could he really blame me?  “6:30 PM?” he asked, “You sure made good time.”  “Well I think we both know how I pulled that off,” I ventured with a little twinkle of the eye.  He smiled, cautioned me to be safe on my vacation, reminded me of the dangers of night driving in an appropriately stern manner, and bid me a warm farewell– sans ticket.  Welcome back to Montana, the universe seemed to be saying!

After a parlay with my sweet road-tripping companion Molly, it was decided that we both needed a day to decompress.  And decompress I did.  I visited old friends and made it out for a late night jaunt into the mountains.  Whiskey was had and lies were told in abundance.  I couldn’t have asked for a better homecoming.  The next morning, ahem afternoon, we loaded up Molly’s trusty steed, Black Betty, and headed north.  Now Dewey, who has provided me with every bike I have ever known, told me to take his full suspension mountain bike rather than (his) other 29-er hardtail that I had brought for the trip.  I tried to protest but he looked at me and said, “It’s a powder ski.” And just like that I was sold.  So off we went with two bikes and a few Action Packers of gear.  We stopped in Helena for some singletrack and continued to the Canadian border on the east side of Glacier.  Except, guess what?  Canadians are an unpredictable genre of humans and had closed the border at 6PM.  So back to Glacier we went, where we were rewarded with free intelligence testing, free-er camping, and one of the most stunning trail runs I could have conceived of.

North we went, and along the way learned that Canadians are friendly, with the exception of border patrol who lack the steadfast good humor possessed by the rest of their countrymen.   I want to write every detail of this trip, but I am beginning to see that life is too short for such endeavors.  So to highlight our stay in Canada: biking and running in Banff, photoshoots at Lake Louise (pronounced by a couple of crazy girls as “Loch Hllluiiiiissssse”), a booze cruise along the Colombian Icefields, wolves around every bend, taking time to “steady that ship” on a moment to moment basis, and a tromp with Molly–that old tumpy todger– in the high alpine.

Of special note was a gentleman we met, let’s call him Dougie Fresh.  He was a 75 year old quinessential Albertan bro.  We met him ~10k into a hike high up on a mountain pass.  We were layered to the gills and he was in a pair of shorts and a carhart vest.  He asked if he could join for the hike down and we conceded, looking at eachother as if to say “if he can keep up.”  Next thing I knew, I was slipping on a steep icy slope and he all but stepped right over me, taking the lead.  We chased him down the mountain.  “Did he have kids?”  “No (staring wistfully off into space), no I don’t think so.  (Stares off into space again) No, probably not.”  “Did he have a wife?” “No, back when I was a young man you couldn’t find women in the mountains.  Young men today don’t know how good they have it.”  Sounds reasonable.  While walking he did look to the hills and say, “People look for the fountain of youth.  It’s up there.”  As we got to the trailhead, totally beat, he bid us farewell, walked over to the nearest pine tree, unlocked his mountain bike and took off.  Next we saw him was ~20k down the road, pedaling away.  We rolled our windows down, honked, hooted-and-hollered, and gave him our best American send off. 75 year old Doug of Alberta and his fountain of youth.  I’ll never forget him.

We made it back to Bozeman safe and sound, totally rejuvenated.  I spent time with my sister, adventured with Dewey and Justin, and caught up with the always amazing and inspiring Mary.  I cried the bulk of the way back to Salt Lake, unable to bear the thought of returning to reality.  I often feel that I am on a righteous and worthy path, however the wrong one for me.  I struggle with this daily and have for years.  I am at the point of no turning back, much like in a really hard race when you realize that not finishing is no longer an option.  I think we all probably struggle with something in our lives that feels completely not right, be it our work, lover, location or habits.  I think part of the secret to life is finding your fountain of youth and drinking from it with reckless abandon.  Now I’m sure that not everyone’s fountain of youth lies in the mountains, but that’s where mine is for sure.  So I’ll keep lapping it up until I’ve had my fill, a day I hope never comes.