Turns out August 4th has been quietly stalking my calendar for over two decades, always showing up right in the thick of summer's mess of sweat, sand, and questionable decisions. It started in 2002 with a desert work trip that somehow included karaoke, a near-firing, and a Super 8 motel that almost cooked me alive. Two years later I was chasing dizziness and bears around the Rattlesnake, trying to out-hike my own bad mood.
By 2008 I'd found my rhythm out in Mackay, Idaho, feeling like a rock star for one weekend, and by 2009 I was busy waxing poetic about blood, sacrifice, and endurance racing as if I were writing scripture instead of a blog post. 2010 gave me a spirit-healing ride with Paul, and 2011 delivered the sprawling, sun-baked confession that is Another Butte 100, still one of my favorites for its honesty about carrying old baggage up a mountain.
The years kept rolling: wandering off trail near Pipestone, grinding up to Bell Lake, and dodging grizzlies on Ramshorn with what I can only call reckless gratitude. Then things got quieter, more visual. Pine Creek Trail left the story to the photos, Chromecastraphy left it to YouTube, and Eagle Creek just let the POV camera do the talking. And this year, apparently, I let an AI narrate a snowy January with a dog named Snuggles.
Twenty-three years of August 4ths and the thread never really changes: get outside, get a little lost, come back with a story. Some things are worth repeating.