margarita mountain

If only there were a Margarita Mountain with creeks and springs flowing yellow with Cadillacs. (Kinda reminds me of that Big Rock Candy Mountain hobo song.) There’s not but there’s a margarita mountain of the mind and I found it, ran it, over the weekend. As much as I’m a fan of getting out into the mountains just for the experience of soaking it all in and being present to the land of the moment, there are times, too, when a run up a mountain can become nothing but a struggle of training, overtraining. Still, a lot to be found, though, a lot of depth of mind to absorb up on the mountain even if you’re too tired to appreciate the rosy light of the late afternoon filtering through the trees or the unheard croaking of frogs down in the creek valley. And what I found in the depths of my mind while I forced myself up and up and on was the most serene of settings – dark and cool and filled with happy people enjoying the end of a long week. That’s where, I’m a bit embarrassed to say, I went in my time of need on the mountain, the only thing that was driving me onward, some personal version of Cheers in my head, where I knew, once this damn run was over, I’d be speeding directly towards for tall pitchers of margaritas with the rest of those running along with me. The best and/or most interesting part of it all is that once I finally got up and down the mountain and over to the dark cozy margarita bar, and once I’d gotten drink in hand and halfway sunk, well, all I could see then was the mountain. A replay of the run, running through my mind all evening. A nice little gift from the mountain, who, I think, understood my struggle that day and appreciated it and let me take a little morsel home to savor and to remind… you were on the mountain…