While I was waiting for the skid-steer to warm-up I noticed my bike leaning against the shed wall. Two flat tires, rusty chain, covered with grime and almost buried behind kerosene heaters, chain saws, shovels - all the detritus of the season.
Then I heard a plaintive whisper, "Come on, let's go for a spin. Just like old times. We can do it."
I didn't have the heart to tell her I'ld been seeing someone else. It started as just a brief fling, destined not to last. But here it was March and I was still sneaking away to spend an hour or two with sweet little Karhu Pinnacles, aka my backcountry skis.
What can I say? It's cold, the snow is deep and the heart's fancy is a fickle thing. Soon enough my affections will swing back to bikes and boats but for now skiing's the thing.
|The gate handcrafted by Leif Johnson of Black Creek Forge in Hebron|
|The Dix Bridge|
Hudson Crossing is aptly named. It has a palpable sense of coming and going. I'm a small part of that history. This is where I used to escape when the burdens of school became too much. I'ld lace up my running shoes, cut classes and slip across the island to the backroads of Washington County for a few hours of exploration. I knew the Principle's office and a stern Mr. Nolte would be waiting for me when I returned. But who cares? For a little while I was getting a real education and tasting freedom. No wonder I like it here.