Hmm. It looks like we're in the San Juan Mountains just north of Silverton, Colorado.
I don't remember how we got here. What about you, any idea? No? Just blanks, eh?
Well, I guess it doesn't really matter. Might as well make the most of our situation. This is definitely a great place for us to hide, I'll give it that.
It's weird, though. A lot of these peaks seem to be bleeding. I wonder what happened to them.
Do you think the mountains suffer like we do?
Words. I do not like them anymore. They used to be my friends, but now they've turned against me. They're playing hard to get these days. If I drink, they slip away and leave me alone at the bar. If I abstain, they say they'll never return unless I have a drink. It's an impossible situation. How am I supposed to write anything if I can't use words? You don't get paid for submitting a blank piece of paper.
I've had those pictures of Red Mountain sitting around for months now. It's been so long that I can't even remember what filter I used in my photo editor. I shot them while participating in the John Cappis 50k, an ultramarathon that starts in Silverton and follows a big circuit through the mountains around town. There are no course markings. You use a map and/or GPS to navigate from checkpoint to checkpoint until you either arrive back at the starting line or give up and quit.
The route varies from year to year depending on snowpack and stream gage levels; this year's version was pretty close to 30 miles with about 16,000 feet of elevation gain. It took me all day, and after I was done I drove four hours east in the dark, slept in my car at a campsite on Monarch Pass, and woke up early enough to be at the Salida aquatic center for a quick shower before work. It was a wonderful adventure, and it's the sort of thing I think about when people ask me what I like to do for fun. But what I actually tell them is different.
Oh, I like to hike and climb mountains. You know, typical Colorado stuff.
Gloss it over. Filter it. Because they wouldn't understand, that's why. I'm talking about extreme days of saying screw it to Do everything in moderation. Why stop at a 5k when you can keep going for a hundred miles. It's really not that far. Why bother doing laps in a pool when you can swim across the fucking Amazon. Piranhas aren't real. Why quit after six beers when you've got six more in the fridge. Down the hatch with all twelve of those bastards, now! It feels like a challenge, and I'm much obliged to accept. Thank all the gods I never got into gambling—I'd be even broker than I already am. How have I never been in jail?
Anxiety.
Bleeding mind.
I'm running out of things to say.
Not sure what to put in the next paragraph.
Maybe I'll take a break for a while. I need to go buy groceries to feed my hungry fridge, and I want to spend some time wandering around the thrift store pretending to be content and normal, like everyone else who isn't me—all those perfect normal people suffocating in their happiness. Maybe while I'm at the thrift store I'll find a couple of well-worn books, the kind with no pictures on their covers, which is the kind you need if you want to look intelligent. Yes indeed. And gently used candles, some scuffed up tupperware, too. Yes. Wait. No. Those would make me look old and stupid. Never mind. Scratch the candles and tupperware. Shit, man… I can't even do thrift stores right. What an idiot. Old, stupid idiot. Christ.
But anyway, that doesn't really matter. The only thing that matters is what happens next—the girl I have a massive crush on will walk in, shortly after I've pulled a Cormac McCarthy and maybe a Mother Earth off the shelf, but not before I've walked myself back from the edge of making that candles and tupperware mistake. Yes, and I will engage her in polite, thoughtful conversation without being awkward in the least. We will discover that we share a lot of things in common, much more than just a mutual physical attraction, and we'll end up getting lunch at that place down by the river, the one with the outdoor patio with all those blue and white string lights hanging everywhere. I can't remember what that place is called. They make really good pizza, though. And they've got—
Wait.
No.
That's the dumbest thing I've heard all week. All year, maybe. None of this is making any sense, man. You see all these words here? They're all wrong. This is all garbage. It's complete dogshit. Just fucking delete it all and start over. See, this is what happens when you drink. You don't think straight anymore. You black out. You come to your senses on top of some bloody mountain, and not for a second do you consider that maybe something is very, very seriously wrong with your head?
Also, this is what happens when you don't drink.
Cool, so you've got a clear head for once, but that's about it. Know what you don't got? Words. So you're fucked both ways, man, and you and me both know that neither of those ways is any fun at all. Are you listening to me? Look at me when I'm—goddammit. Fuck. Shut the fuck up. Sometimes I wish I could just switch off my brain, you know?
Maybe I'll take a break for a while.
*Flick.
Give me a minute, I'll be right back.
*Flick.
I'm back. Thanks for waiting.
No problem. Where'd you go?
Silverton.
Nice. That's gotta be one of my favorite spots in the whole state.
Yeah, it's definitely a great place.
What'd you get up to out there?
Oh, I just did some hiking. Got some nice mountain shots. Here, check 'em out.
Sick, man. Why'd you use that filter, though?
I don't know. Just thought I'd try and make the red pop a little more, I guess.
You shouldn't filter reality, man. Life's a beautiful thing all by itself, no need to edit it.
Then why'd you shoot yourself, James?
That filter reminds me of sitting too close to the TV when I was young.
And that was the best comment I could think of. Tried to answer your question at the bottom but couldn't decide since I couldn't find one answer and the other was too painful.
It was a trick question—they're both an equal amount of terrible, so neither one is worse than the other. Or something like that.
It's a deep thought.
How many dead bodies did you leave in your wake to colour those mountains old tv screen red? Such a devil colour.
ps, I searched Red Mountain and got this, until I dug further south for Colorado.
Just one. He did it to himself, though, so there's no blood on my hands.
Rossland's Red Mountain doesn't look very red to me…
He bled out eveywhere doing it to himself.
They lie. They always lie when they're selling something.
Huh. I guess I'm not the only one suffering from the creative dammits.
Nice mountains.
Hiding. Cuz the suffering can be overcome with the right, you know, hard work and therapy and shit. Then you get to see the real. Real is pretty rad, most days, imo.
But hard work is so hard.