Monday, October 17, 2011


I left a bottle of water in the car overnight this weekend. When I got in to drive to my run this morning I took a gulp.
It was jarringly cold.
Instantly I was reminded of the many times I've scooped water from the earth on cold mornings–my fingers burning then numb, the cringing as it froze my throat.
I battered the quarter inch of ice on the frost swirled lake surface with the heel of my hand. I longed to quench my cottony throat after a dry camp. The mountains of Colorado were quickly becoming inhospitable. 
Too I remembered cold springs gushing trailside above Sierra City relieving me from the crushing heat of California. The welcome numbness of ice water in my hand-held bottles as I ran down Suntop during White River 50mi.
In my car, I shivered as the icy liquid snaked its way through my body, settling into my stomach like dread. I  blasted the heater and the chill slowly dissipated. I drove to the run, but couldn't shake the memories. There is something beautiful about drawing your sustenance straight from the ground, whether it be huckleberries, morels, or water.