We live in the jet age. I went from Oregon to Colorado and back last weekend and it was no big deal. Denver was covered in a thick blanket of snow when I arrived—in the evening, under the stars—and it felt moon-like in the city, all that white everywhere. I think we all now how much better pavement, cement and winter's dull gray trees look with a tidy snow dressing. I ate pizza at Lalas with my sister and her fam and slept deeply that night.
An early bus took me up into the mountains. I saw a fox scampering through a field on the way—sneaky and ghost like. Then I spent three days eating my mom's date and walnut bread, walking through the winter woods, and riding/eating/drinking/talking with old friends who were in town for the Burton U.S. Open. Restorative, you know?
My dad's onion sprouts. Reach for the sun!
And just like that, I was back in the Northwest—looking down on lush green valleys, wide rivers, and snow-capped volcanos off in the distance no matter which way you looked.