I moved away from the desert this year ... two hours north and 3,000 feet higher. There hasn't been a single regret. Daylight brings unspeakable vistas. Night reveals new clarity previously shrouded by the light pollution of my former city. The air in this new place stinks of adventure.

Mountain white caps inch down most mornings. Plenty to do, always, this time of year. Get your wood in before winter. Get your freezer stocked before winter. Squats and sprints in preparation for promised powder days. With excitement and wonder I appreciate each October snow. I can't help, however, mourning just a little bit as my bike is tarped in my barn.

In these last days of October, bike racks are uninstalled in solemnity. I can't help wincing as the trails outside my window become painfully visible as stark white veins on a vericose mountain. And I can't help fondly remembering my desert where October days, like all days, were for riding and I was, in the poetry of RoseAnn V. Shawiak, "Riding eternally into sunsets, singing of desert beauty forever." Here, I accept, the death of biking season is the fertile ground in which skiing can thrive. And with appreciation, simplicity, and quietness, I accept this seasonal life. 

Words and Photo by Nick Morgan, Loam Coffee Grassroots Rider

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