If Mailbox were always raining. Ok.
If only it were always windy. Great.
If only it burned my legs and made me want to stop walking for the rest of the week. Well, it does that.
But, no. Mailbox has this unfortunate habit of occasionally, very occasionally turning out a brilliant performance. Number 16 was such a performance.
Number 16 began with a text saying I would be alone except for Treen. The sky was clear at the trailhead, but dark since it was only 5:45am. The fog and clouds rolled in between there and the Banjo Tree. My hopes of a view-filled morning were dashed. At the Green Gate, though, the skies cleared and Rainier appeared over the hills. The clouds still covered the valley floor, but above us was nothing but the summit. Truly, it was a glorious morning.
And therein lies the problem. The glory of number 16 will likely be be asked to compensate for the disappointment of number 17. And the rain of number 18. And the blowing snow of numbers 19, 20, and 21.
Yet I'll remember number 16 and a handful of others that came before it. When my alarm goes off each Sunday morning I'll get up in hope of a repeat. Even if it's unlikely to happen.