2026- My fiftieth year

As I enter my fiftieth winter, my 606th moon, my fifth decade, second century, and eighth president, it seems a good enough time to re-start the chronicling of my wanderings, which are driven by the strange goal of completing every road and trail on a map. This week saw me seeking out small spurs in Taylor Park. Taylor River Road winds up the canyon and then splits at the lake. Normally by this time of year, the snowplows have built large frozen berms on both arms of the fork. Typically, the only way to access anything beyond the lone general store is by snowmobile or ski. This year, the asphalt is visible as it wraps around the frozen lake and the road to Tincup is passable in a passenger car.

A winter this dry is mostly depressing, the brown rock in the distant mountains exposed and sad, the thick blanket of snow of which so much depends, a dirty rag, threadbare. But it has extended my access into areas typically locked tight to a lady on snowshoes, skis or other non-motorized means of transportation. It's a paltry upshot, but it is a plus.

The dogs and I spent the week poking about, heading this way and that, marking off camping roads that, from May to September, are packed to the brim with RVs of every brand and size. Unsure what we would find, we brought the snowshoes

, crisscrossing the meadow above the reservoir and listening to the pines moan. Short roads abruptly end in private property signs and we are taking advantage of the silence to mark off a small knot of jeep trails that meander among the red willows and through the evergreen forest.

I turned fifty in September and the following months were a flurry of events-- a spiraling reverie of trips to Denver, soccer games, celebrations, reunions, girls' trips and family vacations. It was a celebration of what I believe has been a life well lived and a veritable feast of gratitude. But now, four months later, I am ready to settle back into what will be the latter half of my life.

Sam will graduate this spring and, at this time next year, my home will be without children for the first time in 24 years. This moment feels as momentous as when, in the summer of 2002, I stared at an infant in a car seat in the sunny living room of a rental house, wondering what in the hell I had done. That young mom is a stranger to me now; I have been a dutiful bill payer for far longer than I ever was a wandering gypsy. Lydia moved out five years ago. This winter, the three of us---mom, dad and son--- exist in a sort of suspension, an extended pause between what was and what will be. As he should, Sam strains against the straps of a life that is feeling a bit tight, the skin flaking before it is shed. In the dark of January, we wait.

A few miles before the rag tag collection of cabins that is Tincup, the dogs and I poke about, the great wall of mountains that ring Taylor Park behind us. These are strange adventures and it's hard to imagine any friend who would have the patience for this. But when I get home, I mark off several quarter mile spurs and feel happy that even when things are so still, we are making progress, a little bit at a time.