March 22nd keeps delivering the unexpected, and apparently I'm still learning to roll with it.
Twenty years ago, I was blogging from a log on University Ridge, content with where I'd landed even if the snow blocked the summit. That acceptance of "close enough" feels like ancient wisdom now. Sixteen years back, I was blindfolded and whisked away to test secret single-track, landing sketchy jumps I never saw coming (damn Russian judges). Fifteen years ago, I was plopping down for rare hockey-watching time, marveling at Moonlight Basin and learning that seeing the path doesn't mean you'll summit it.
The pattern continues: arriving at Bear Creek to find rocks instead of snow, checking out Hyalite on spring's official first day to find dog poop sickles, catching that golden hour light under brooding skies. Ten years ago I was waiting for something bigger around the corner. Nine years back, I welcomed Cruz into the family at 10:30 PM, all 33 pounds of trans-platform newness.
Then there's this year, waking to find that uninvited green grid icon on my taskbar, heart racing at the unannounced arrival. And two years ago, conking out during autism documentaries before heading to the US West Trail to meet my mosquito welcoming committee.
March 22nd has taught me this: the best arrivals rarely announce themselves properly. Sometimes you land where you didn't expect. Sometimes that's exactly where you needed to be.