Twenty-two years of March 23rds tell a story about transformation. In 2004, I was wrestling with corporate betrayal at Sikorsky while Montana whispered its siren song. The next year, I'd channeled my inner Marcy, bombing corners on black ice with more enthusiasm than grace. Classic.
By 2008, I was sweating through my first A-group race in Clinton, chasing anaerobic thresholds. A year later, my parents' 36th anniversary reminded me that real winning is about who's cheering at the finish line. Then came 2010's minimal stimulus experiment, trading screens for watching Montana unfold like a movie.
Peter the rabbit showed up in 2012, guarding his temple alongside 200-pound Hank. The mountains taught me to stop analyzing in 2013. Sphinx Mountain called in 2014 (I really should listen better). I outmaneuvered a drone in 2021. Mr Bear met the ocean in 2023, then discovered miniature lighthouses. Mo's Tanque Verde Falls photos transported us last year. And this year, I'm geeking out over Browse AI.
March 23rd keeps showing me the same truth: whether you're sliding on ice, chasing drones, or just sitting in tall grass, life's best moments happen when you stop analyzing and start experiencing. The mountains knew it all along.