Dances At Moonrise

OK, I admit it. Wetterhorn had me smitten from that very first sunny day we met, on Thursday, June 17, 2010. The whole trip was a hair-brained scheme entirely predicated on avoidance of excessive driving. By this point I'd already figured out my life would be hopelessly empty, unfulfilled, lacking, incomplete, unrequited, deficient, insufficient, unconsummated, imperfect, lackadaisical, rough, rude, lewd, and indecent without at least having made the effort to step foot on each and every one of Colorado's 58 14ers. But why in the world my soul had suddenly felt it could not possibly be at peace with the planet, after nearly six decades of wandering around on its surface, and even with occasional forays into those hallowed places where the last remnants of earth meet sky, remained an inexplicable Quandary. I'd no idea why I had the blues for Greys or felt partly cloudy without Sunlight. I'd already poked around Pikes but still longed for Longs, sniffled for Sneffels, howled for Handies and growled for the Challenger of Little Bear. Honestly, it was quite the Conundrum. I knew not why, but only that it was so. No sense in putting up a fight, or feigning indifference, or attempting to quietly sneak away from it. Besides, in the prior ten months, I'd already managed to attain about half the goal anyway, so I figured, let's just go ahead and give destiny her way, indulge the whim, and let the soul go along its merry way. But the San Juan remained. And isn't it a pretty long drive?