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Hundred Days



The Mountain Pulse Jackson Hole


The bane of all writers is the occasional bout of creative constipation. It is as if your pen has run dry, and no matter how hard you press down, no matter how many times you dab it on your tongue, only faint indentations of a worthwhile idea emerge. For those in the game of words, there is truly nothing more debilitating than writer’s block.

No exception to the trend, I routinely wage war on the diligent beaver damning up my stream of thought. Yet in this fight, I invoke a muse like no other: The Tetons. The rugged beauty of this place overcomes me daily, forcing my hand to jot down ideas furiously. No matter where or when this inspiration strikes, whether it be in the gondola or half way down Four Pines, I respond to it obediently.

 Cruising groomers today, I looked up to see the valley sprawled out pristinely before me. Sleeping Indian lay stoically in the distance, carving into the cloudless, azure horizon. Every tree, rock, and mound of snow was starkly defined, as if an architect had drafted the scene with a mechanical pencil. I rushed to the side, and pulled out a pen. There were no words pressing to be written, but the scene compelled a moment of reflection. “It’s like…” I started on my hand. “It’s like everything is in HD!” Of course these words neither justified the scene’s beauty nor warranted use in any reputable publication, but they needed to be written. If for nothing else, pausing to scribble them down allowed the day’s majesty to better sink in.

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