Twenty-two years of August 23rds and the pattern is embarrassingly clear: something in me refuses to sit still when the weather's good. Back in 2004 it was a drive-in night in Butte followed by a Rattlesnake Wilderness plan. By 2005 I was kayaking through my own memories, chasing Monday blues away on a bike I hadn't even found yet. Frog Rock showed up in 2011 as proof that "active rest" is a lie I tell myself right before a full trail run breaks out.
Then things got bigger. The Beartooth trip in 2012 was two miles of bike-pushing and a storm that tested every ounce of commitment, and somehow that's the one I still grin about. Paul's 2015 visit gave us both Emerald Lake and a smoky-valley climb up Sacagawea. By 2017 I was questioning the whole employment thing entirely, which, fair.
The recent years got quieter but no less devoted: an open van door and a beer in 2020, a modest but mine BLM Loop in 2021, the ever-reliable Jackson Creek Trails in 2022, a smoke-dodging detour to Cliff Lake in 2023, and last year's accidental highway hike in Highway to Cool.
Different decades, same instinct: when in doubt, go outside. Seems like it's never once let me down.