I stood at the edge of a forest, and then I sat on the side of a mountain. I was reminded of a brief time in my youth. I was skiing in the Cascades, or rather close to them at least. Cross-country, not that downhill shit. The snow was fresh, a fine powder blanketing the hills and trees. Flickering past my point of view. I came upon an old rock quarry, where I could not help but imagine the hard laborers of this land’s ancient past. As I made my way around the edge of the quarry I crested a ridge. The Cascades. A spine of stone on the horizon. Hauntingly precious. And then I was back on that mountain with my rifle held dear to my chest.