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Hundred Days



The Mountain Pulse Jackson Hole, Wyoming

The tragic irony of the holiday season is that as much as it invokes merriment and good tidings, it can also produce a degree of chaos. I do not mean to be a Grinch, or a Scrooge, or any other nefarious detractor from the Christmas cheer, but there was certainly an anxious buzz over town.
So I retreated to the bootpack off Apres Vous, where life’s natural rhythm remained intact. Hiking through the trees up to the Crags, the cadence of my breathing delivered me to a meditative state, each exhalation dissolving my brewing angst. In no rush to return to the world, I sat peacefully at the top, accompanied only by creaking trees and the distant call of an unseen bird.

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