10:11

The beaver was at home here. It reminded him very much of his roots, felt safe and, for all it’s insignificance in the shadow of the soaring rockies, when perched atop one of the many summits on the edge of the hills watching the carpet of grass roll out endlessly in front of him, it always made the beaver feel like he was on top of the world looking down on his many problems like they were random collections of dirt and detritus, like dust bunnies to be scooped up and swept away.

For him, this traditional pause at the edge of the mountains wasn’t just a a moment to reflect, it was a respite from far too many memories: failures, unfinished tasks, unrecoverable losses and all of the reminders of the world’s mortality that he wore embedded in his hide like tiny glass shards.

The beaver often returned to this exact spot, high above Longview and the vast sprawling ranches that lay south. There was always something ironic about this spot, accessible only by passing through the foothills along the Highwood river valley then curving south at the very bases of the first of the limestone monsters hemming him in on both sides before emerging once again on the western edge of the foothills. A quick crossing of the frigid and fast Livingston river and a long winding trek up the backside of grassy humps left him atop one of the tallest and last of the foothills with an unimpeded view that left him imagining he could see the frosted waves of the Atlantic lapping against the east coast’s shores.

To achieve the goal one must give it up freely. The hope is always that you will emerge from the emptiness with a reward greater than the sacrifice. In the case of his beloved foothills, they had yet to fail him in this respect.