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Hundred Days



The Mountain Pulse Jackson Hole

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH: Settling into a seat on the bus, I lifted my goggles to their perch on my helmet, and went about studying my fellow passengers. Most wore a subtle smirk that hinted to an iceberg of contentment lying just below the surface. Immediately across from me, an old woman sat with long skinny skis propped against her shoulder. Though her face was sewn with the signs of time, she possessed a youthful essence that suggested she could have posed for Vermeer in another lifetime. Noticing my unabashed staring, she addressed me in a thick Old World European accent: “Snow was vundafull,” she said. “Yea, and it only looks to get better tomorrow,” I responded. “Yus, and bizy. I don’t dink I get first Tdram tomodow.” The brief interaction invoked a simple conclusion: life is meant to be lived. Some spend their whole lives without ever really getting to the pulp of existence. They pinch the fruit, but never take a firm grip and squeeze it. Looking at this woman, I could only think that at the end of her days, she’ll have had enjoyed more nectar than most.

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