Returning to life stateside has proved as much a trip as my busted-ass sailing odyssey. I've gone back to ski bumming in Wyoming, happily broke but surrounded by material excess... no car.. ten hours a week behind the bar... pulling plastic teeth in my little shed... down at the bottom of the J Hole but scaling it's walls daily in perpetual search. Fortunately, the gravity of reentry has been lightened by good friends, great skiing, the occasional cocktail, excessive exercise, and all grades of given herb. Unfortunately, all this pleasurable experience comes at a price: along with slow-easy-consciousness, in the time since my return good writing has flown out the window.
All truth told, my brain is pickling. Every day is an occasion. This might be hard to follow. You've been warned.
The current pointless project is wrapping myself in a perversion of the American Dream again, getting my hopes up so their subsequent trouncing will send me off the deep and into my next adventure. Mindlessly, I'm embracing a backcountry ski bum life despite awareness of its fundamental flaws: there's no money in it, and at it's best this life offers the exact opposite of security. However, that freedom is ohhh so delicious, especially if properly prepared. Hence, I'm a mountain man pickled, sure as shit there's no truer way to take in/on America without losing your own soul.
Enough nonsense. On with the story.
Enough nonsense. On with the story.