Minus 20

The wind was like a thousand knives peeling, cutting, detaching my skin from my body.

It was minus 20 degrees. Any exposed skin promptly submitted to the strong arm of winter by way of a white flacky complexion. Early stages of frostbite. There were slivers of exposed skin beneath and above my sunglasses that allowed the wind to drive stakes into my head with uninhibited force. We were only a mile and a half in when I found myself saying, "This is not good. I can't make it." At the time standing at the base of what I thought would be my floor at some point in the day.

So no, we weren't at the summit of Mt. Quandary. In fact we weren't anywhere close.

I found out the hard way that I don't have all the equipment I need to tackle a mountain in the dead of winter.

I was beaten. Quandary ate my lunch, handed me my hat, the question of "whose your daddy" was answered by a rock lying just northwest of Breckenridge.

And so with a middle finger held high in Mt. Quandary's general direction I've begun the process of recollecting my strength, will and nerves in an attempt to transition from being the conquered to being the conquerer.

And to Mt Quandary I say this: Your day will come. You will submit to my will.

Oh yes...

you will.