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"The mark of a really
great writer is that he or she gives expression to what the masses of
mankind think or feel without knowing it. The mediocre writer simply
writes what everyone would have said."
-G.C. Lichtenberg
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There's a throne nearby, covered in pine needles, a
few rocks and the everyday detritus of the natural world.
It belongs to no one in particular, and it belongs
to anyone who cares to hike about 1,000 feet above the valley floor.
It was typical April in the Northern Rockies,
and I climbed through misty woods and afternoon drizzle to discover the
perch already occupied by a peculiar little man with his head held
high, gazing east across $3 billion in real estate that was spread
beneath his pronged feet.
He hid behind a tree at first, but then peeked out
with bashful eyes. It didn't take long before he emerged in the open
air and refocused himself on the task at hand.
As the rain waned, he bore the focus of
ancient, instinctive determination – his tail feathers spread like a
Japanese fan, his body dancing in lustful, uniquely avian ways.
He waddled through the brush and down a sage strewn
slope to where the ridge is a ridge no more. He stood there at the edge
of a cliff with the Kingdom of Ketchum spread out before him. There he
called to the dominion below for a queen with which to share his scenic
royal roost.
The horny little dude blew on his air sac in the
hope that he might be seen, or might be heard. The red spot on his neck
swelled and shrank in rhythmic patterns.
Perhaps another grouse heard him, but all my ears
detected were the muffled sounds of traffic and the timbre of the
bustling kingdom below. It was white noise rising up to drown the
king's ancient, instinctive whims.
Even 1,000 feet was not enough.
And so, the throne occupied, I retreated into the
woods below where silence reigned and the rain resumed. I plodded
steadily downward into the woods and pondered that my visit with the
king was not my first.
My brushes with the area's royalty give me strength
in everyday life. They are empowering encounters that remind me why I
live where the wilds creep close to the domesticated furrows of man.
When the going gets tough, I make a pilgrimage to one of the area's
thrones.
Long live the king.
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