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I spent the latter part of January leaving my boot tracks along miles of trails in Colorado and taking care of my daughter’s chickens (her flock of “mother cluckers,” as she calls them) back at the “farm” while she and her husband vacationed in the Caribbean. Surprisingly, there was little snow where she lives, but central Massachusetts, where I hang my hat, got LOTS of snow. While I was sad to leave Colorado after two and a half weeks, I couldn’t wait to get back home to strap on the snowshoes.
My first day out on the ‘shoes, with the whipped-up snow and cold numbing my face and fingers, I had the forest all to myself. I thought of my friend Jim, who left us way too early in life. We’d both be retired now and he’d probably be out with me on a day like this. No, not probably, he’d definitely be out with me on a day like this.
Many years ago, under an earlier version of this blog, I wrote about Jim. I don’t know what it was - The snowshoes? The cold? Hiking in the Rockies? - but he’s been on my mind lately. And so, I posted an edited version of the original for this month’s blog.
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