Nineteen years of July 4ths and somehow I've never once had a normal one. In 2007 I was juggling three separate posts in a single day: leftover cross race photos from a buddy's camera (check those out), a nostalgic nod back to my Adirondack roots via the Graymont series (results and all), and a cranky little dispatch about weight loss discomfort and coffee shop etiquette (read it, it holds up). Apparently a day off just meant more time to overthink things.
By 2010 the holiday had turned into an actual proving ground, 235 miles of mud, lightning, burnt pot pie, and a quiet moment spreading Marcy's ashes trailside (the full saga is worth the read). Some years the day just wore me down instead, like 2012's honest admission of running on fumes and faith (a wash, and that's fine), or 2013's short, sun-facing meditation on being the mountain's decoration (brief but true).
Other years leaned lighter, hammock naps by Glacier Lake in 2015 (first night out), small-town fireworks glowing over Kellogg in 2024 (still gets me every time), and last year's absurd, caffeinated wrestling match with AI image tools (worth it for the laugh alone).
Whatever shape the day takes, it always seems to ask the same question: are you paying attention. Most years, barely. But barely counts.