My son, Marty, lives in Montana, the kind of place where the mountains don’t just sit there looking pretty; they dare you to engage with them. He rides a snowmobile, and not the cute little kind you see on postcards. This thing is a beast. He glides over powder, carves between trees, and finds trails that don’t show up on maps. He tells me about the joy, the sheer fun of it, the beauty that unfolds around every bend. And I nod, smile, and quietly picture avalanches, because apparently that’s my spiritual gift as a mother.
The same terrain that offers freedom also brings danger. Power and speed can shake loose entire mountainsides. Riders die every year. But joy has a funny way of blinding us to risk, especially when we feel capable, strong, and alive.
He hunts too. Once, he and a friend tracked a mountain lion along a ridge. Yes. A mountain lion. They left the warmth of the truck and followed fresh tracks into the snow. At some point, they got separated. My son, being who he is, returned to the truck to wait. While waiting, he drank the entire thermos of coffee meant for two people because, apparently, survival requires caffeine.
