Such magic in that cirque, emptied of its climbing bros. We de-toured a couple miles into this valley as a picturesque farewell to the big walls and big spaces we passed through that week.The feeling was bitter sweet, eating our last bagged dinners on a frozen lake after sunset, knowing the world only gets more complicated and less beautiful than this. We slid back down the drainage on frozen snow, the duo-toned shapes of peaks we'd never seen, unfurling under the moon, like slide film on a light box.
Early in the trip I mistakenly called 'the cirque' 'titacomb, which quickly turned into a comically confusing nickname. While titacomb marked our entrance into the alpine, and the Cirque, our motivational exit, they're both among the wind's more iconic and sought after landmarks, so it was fun to use them interchangeably. These are the winds totems of steepness and ruggedness, drueled on destinations for extreme recreationalists, and backgrounds to many a wild-selfy. Every place in between is a name not worth remembering, because so few people care to know. And yet, that's what makes them so appealing, just how unpackadged they are, how reistant they are to simple consumption and conquest, how they stand in the way of our projections, fill up and overflow our frameworks. .
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