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Browns Creek all froth and rage
cluttered with fallen pine.
Brook trout feed in shaded pools,
beavers unseen but for their dams.
After five minutes
not a person in sight.
Climbing steadily I reach the end of the trail,
ford the creek, wend through dense forest.
Above tree line the peak rises,
a mass of crumbling rock.
On all fours scrambling, slipping,
then scratching my way to the summit.
Big horn sheep, mountain goats
tread absolute.
Scanning the horizon I realize
Antero looms across the valley floor.
My ego shattered
my effort in vain.
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