franklinhudson

Storms From Painters Spire

Return to the Highlands: Conquering The Painters Spire - This afternoon I returned to Buttes southern peaks. To battle the rocks that almost conquered me at win...
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Return to the Highlands: Conquering The Painters Spire - This afternoon I returned to Buttes southern peaks. To battle the rocks that almost conquered me at winters end. The roads are now clear from snow, and the waxing moon is boiling in my blood. Urging me to escape my humanity. I see no fox spirits this go around, but am instead greeted by a mother moose with her calf. I freeze in my tracks as I spot the calf drunkenly stumbling up the path before me, and the mother isn't far ahead. I've startled them, as much as they've startled me, and I keep my distance. The mother and I stare each other down for some time, sizing each other up through the thick brush. Eventually we tire of the game and part ways. Her and her kinder to the north, and me to the east.
The climb up is rugged. The boulders are jagged and often rotten with erosion. Any one mistep means a snapped ankle, a broken spine, certain doom. But I've climbed worse with less. After following some moose track, and deer track, I find paths here up and there. Shed fur caught on branches. Fresh scat on the ground. Given some acrobatics, blind grabbing for handles and footholds, I make it to the top, and soak in the sun. But my stay is short winded. As heavy thunder swiftly starts crawling in from the south. The climb down is easier. It's always easier.
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