#muscle trail canada

[petew21-blog]

Swapcation: After the escape Part 2

You would think that this is Matthew's body and that I stayed in him till the end of my days. Unfortunately no. Althought his body was amazing and it was also my first body I really soon (like few minutes after I shot loads of cum on the grass) found out that my family was tracking me.

"I could already hear the helicopters searching the forest. The tracker must be off and showing the a larger circle. I still don't know where it could be. Is it under his skin? I didn't find anything in his clothes. And all I have is my personal stuff... I'm such an idiot. It's my phone. Why the hell did I bring my phone?"

I threw it in the opposite direction that I was gonna run. And then I ran. But I was really exhausted after the night run from the car accident. And my head kinda hurt. Matthew must have hurt himself too. So I slowed down. I didn't hear the helicopter anymore. But there I can't stay in this forest forever and certainly not in this body.

I made a decision. The first person I meet I swap with. They'll get a beautiful manly and young body.

And I was pretty luck. I met a hiker who was on his journey for a few days.

"Heyyyy man, you're also on PCT?"

What the hell is PCT. Shit I heard that before. Oh, it's Pacific Crest Trail. Perfect. If he won't notice me switching with him, he could continue with this body all the way to Canada. Who knows when he would find out, but that wouldn't be my problem anymore. Matthew's and his body were almost the same size. I mean... he was just as hot as Matthew

"Heyyy, no. I'm actually from around. Just went to the forest."

We chatted some more and I could see him getting closer. He was definitely straight, but I could get him when we were saying goodbye. Maybe by offering him my hand. I didn't have a chance to test that yet, but my family said, that the victims of body swap always end up in a short state of confusion that gives you time to leave. Like an evolutionary advantage for a predator. Or maybe a parasite?

I wished him good luck and offered him my hand, but he refused.

"Nah man, I'm a hugger. Bring it in"

Shit shit. We went for it, my naked torso and his in just a white top touching. I then activated my power. I opened my eyes and was standing on the other side. Matthew's body looked confused, but he took his bag. And started leaving.

"Wait man, you got my bag by accident. Here" I gave him his bag. I need my stuff and he needs his to survive the PCT. He wouldn't have made it if he found out what kind of useless shit I'm bringing with me.

I walked for over a mile away from the forest path. I was now somebody new. Somebody my family didn't know. I could now leave into the city and live my life forever. For the second time I felt calm. I was before when I was full of adrenalin in Matthew's body and then got to explore his body for a bit. But back then, I didn't even had the chance to look at everything I needed.

I first inspected my new abs. "Matthew had a set just like this, but it hits different in this body. This body has amazing veins going down to my crotch." The hair trail everywhere from neck all the way down there. My skin shriveled as I went over the small hills of muscle hidden beneath my skin. "My belly button, so sexy. Maybe I should swap with some horny gay who would want my body and inspect it myself."

Then I inspected my new hairy and veiny arms. Looking at each finger one by one, touching the hair, licking it. Every finger tracing each vein down to my armpit.

The sexy hairy armpit that was protected by a gigantic biceps. A biceps that could squish heads. A biceps that I got to lick all over. Smell the armpit with the beautiful smell of a man's sweat. The pheromones were hitting me hard. Hard enough that it caused my new dick to get hard as well.

"Now or never"

I swear that I thought Matthew's dick was one of the most beautiful cocks I have seen so far, but let me tell you, that this freaky hairy monster, veins look like popping out, the beautiful purple head of my cock releasing precum, balls the size of plums. How amazing is this.

I spit in my hand and started jerking off. Fuck, I couldn't even start slowly, I had to jerk off so fast. The rush was fantastic.

I sat next to a tree. Still jerking of and with my other hand licking my finger, pushing it in my mouth. How amazing it's gonna be to blow someone with the bearded mouth.

My pecs bouncing in the rythm of the masturbation. Up and down. Sweat glisthening on the, running down the middle over my abs all the way through to my massive cock. My massive cock that my massive hand jerked furiously.

I shot my cum, but shot some of it into my hand. The rest must have flown several feet away from me.

The white cum sticking my fingers was tempting me. I put it in my mouth and licked my fingers clean. As I sat there, breathing out. I laughed, but my relaxing moment was interrupted by some hikers coming my way. I put on the clothes rapidly and headed out west.

I headed to the nearest town and downloaded Grindr. "Time to find some new boy toy to fuck." I said aloud. Yeah, if I said that now in my body no one would ever believe me. I was, and I guess I still am, a virgin. So, I think it's the great time and great body to change that.

I checked out some profiles and found one near me. We met at the park. My torso still bare from the forest adventure. It was a guy in his early 20s. Slightly twinkish, but cute.

"Girrrrlll, I thought you were catfishing me. This is amazing. How did you get this big?" he almost screamed as he went to pinch my left tit.

"Eh, you know. Healthy lifestyle and lot of gym"

"And a lot of cardio, I presume?"

"How about we find out if I had enough cardio today?"

We got in his shower. Both our dicks horny from the view. We kiss passionately. His hands were still over me and over my pecs. Touching my hairy legs and arms. "Let's dry ourselves and go to bed. I need you body so much!"

He got out from the shower and looked back at me.

"I wish I had a body like that. I would enjoy it so fucking much to be this big"

Idea popped in my head. Maybe he would be quiet about it. I could use a friend now that would help me stay in secrecy to avoid my family. Yeah, I wanted to explore my new body from some else before.

I dried myself and followed him to the bedroom. He was ready on the bed. I didn't give him much time to think about it.

He was confused at first still looking at me to find out what was happening.

This was my view. "Fucking hell, I look amazing. Look at all those hair. And those pecs are almost bigger than your head." I said as he still looked at me confused.

I got behind him. "I wanted to do this since I got in that body. So hot. And daaamn. Look at that hairy ass. That's all mine?"

"Man, you and me. We're gonna have SO much fun in the following days."

It seemed like he started to comprehend what was happening. He looked at himseld and then immediately went for a kiss. During the sex, we kept swapping there and back. The confusion on his side waas gone so we didn't have to stop to let him rest and find out what's happening again.

I woke up with the view I was familiar with. Happy to be big again. The twink lying next to me and sleeping peacfully.

"I don't think I'll be leaving any time soon." caressing my sweet pecs while saying that

Part 1:

[thatsdemko]

the lakes - l.stroll

masterlist

requested: y - “his lake house in Canada. You’re there cooped up for the summer break and had all your friends there for a few days but the remainder of the time is for just the two of you. it’s swimming and fucking for like a week straight lol.”

pairings: Lance stroll x fem!reader

warnings: not intended for minors + mentions of oral(f receiving)

a/n: enjoy!!

the silence is deafening. nothing but the sound of the ocean waves, birds chirping, are what you can hear for miles.

the last of your friends have left the stroll family summer cottage. it’s been weeks since you’ve heard this silence, and it’s oddly unfamiliar to your ears.

you’re seated in a rocking chair on the wrap around porch. towel covering your bottom half as you watch Lance emerge from the pool.

he lifts himself up over the edge of the pool. back muscles flexing to lift his weight up and over. you watch the water splash onto the pavement around him as he trots his way over to where you sit.

“here.” you stand up from the chair and wrap the towel around his broad shoulders. a smile creeps onto his face as he takes your seat, his hands extend outward for you to sit in his lap.

“you’re wet, Lance.” you chuckle but accept defeat and let him pull you into his lap. you feel the damp water against his trunks bleed into your jean shorts knowing you’ll just have to change for dinner.

“for you? yeah I am.”

you scoff, pushing your hand into his chest. a little heat spreads across your cheeks, but a fire is burning in between your thighs. you can’t recall the last time he riled you up like this. it must’ve been before the summer break began at the stroll summer cottage.

he pulls you closer into his lap. his wet chapped lips press against your cheek, “it’s been weeks.” he says it like he’s been counting. and knowing him he probably has.

you can feel heat spread across your cheeks as his lips move down to your collarbone, “I’ve missed you.” he whispers against your skin. you can feel the throb in your pussy. it’d be a lie to say you don’t miss him too. you miss his skin against yours, his hot breath in tickling your ear. it’s all warming you up.

“we’ve got the whole place.” you say matter of fact. your fingers trail down his wet chest, “I’ve been wanting to scream your name for awhile.”

he exhales a short laugh. you can feel him shifting uncomfortably underneath you, “yeah? I’ve missed hearing you.”

he grabs a hold of your chin with his index finger and thumb. he turns you to face him, eyes and lips inches apart, “I’ve missed your sweet sounds.”

the red hue is inching its way to make your face as red as a tomato. you shove your head into the crook of his neck letting out a giggle.

“don’t be shy now.” he says. you feel his fingers slip under your shirt. they just ghost your skin making your back arch into his wet chest, lips colliding with his on purpose. his fingers unhook your bikini top, while his other hand readjusts you in his lap so your legs now straddle him.

“we can’t do this out here.” you pull away from the kiss. index finger held to those wet pink plump lips, you feel his jaw relax. his mouth opens and his tongue swirls across your finger, lips sucking off your sweet and sandy taste.

“we can do whatever we want. it’s our house, we make the rules.”

—

laying poolside, your back is up towards the sun. eyes glued to the pool where Lance swims laps. you’re right against the edge, laying on your warm towel sipping one of lances beers.

the past twenty-four hours had been nothing but pure sex. from the dinning room table all the way to the tile floor in the shower. there was no signs of stopping, the fire between you both was not to be messed with.

“you like what you see?” he swims to the other end of the pool where you’re laying. head bobbing up and down out of the water, droplets of chlorine drip down his face.

“always.” you lean closer to the edge to meet him. swollen lips connecting for a brief second before he tries to pull away, but your hands are intertwined in the hair at the nape of his neck, “where do you think you’re going?” you whisper.

“no where.” he says pulling himself out of the water and onto your towel, “I’m going wherever you go.” he moves across your body and you turn with him, resting your burnt back against the damp towel.

“take me there.” you spread your legs wide for him, all he had to do is untie the bikini bottoms that are loosely held against your hips.

he undoes the loose knots and tosses the bottoms aside. he’s careful to not let chlorine drip into your folds as his tongue starts to lap your folds.

he’s careful and delicate with each swipe and flick. he nudges his tongue with your tight cunt. your fingers try to grip his wet hair, but they slip right through. you’re stuck clenching the edge of the pool and a part of your towel.

every inch of you itches and squirms. he’s never one to full send, his careful placements of his tongue drive you until you’re dizzy and begging.

“Lance, please.” you beg, pathetic whines leave your lips that you’re sure the neighbors could hear. he chuckles, the vibrant against you earns another whimper.

“come for me.” he breathlessly whispers. he’s so engulfed in every inch of you. every dripping of you tastes so sweet, he has a hard time cleaning you up all by himself.

he lifts himself up and back into the pool in one swift motion. it’s almost like he wasn’t just eating you out two seconds ago. he extends a hand to help you, and you gladly take it allowing your body to cool off from the warmth that spread all through you.

you’re turned away from him when suddenly you see his swim trunks join your bikini bottoms at the side of the pool. you swivel your head in his direction as he swims up behind you, “only fair I join you.”

—

the sand in your cheeks is irritating your skin. you’re trying your best to make a half attempt at being sexy on the beach with your thong bikini bottoms, but it’s no use. Lance is still high on last nights skinny dipping adventure that rung you dry.

it’d been a whole week of pure sex. any place that you could do it, you were. which even meant now, on the private beach at the lake.

he’s laying face up. cooling his body off from the cold waters of Lake Ontario. you’re beside him, hand cupping the cold glass beer bottle staring him down. he looks so peaceful under the sun. a smile on his face, he’s got to spend every minute with you doing all the things he couldn’t stop thinking about with the company of your friends.

you’re feeling devilish, and in desperate need to get your bikini bottoms off. you set the cold bottle into the sand and climb your way over to his towel.

you remove your bikini top and toss it along side your towel. you throw one of you legs over lances lap straddling him.

he surprisingly doesn’t wake, but you can feel his cock hardening underneath you. you smirk to yourself carefully rolling your hips forward, crotch rubbing against his wet trunks. that outta wake him up, you think to yourself.

you do it again. pushing down with more emphasis this time, you watch his eyes jolt open. it’s a sight to see, a happy one in fact. your large breasts in his face, and you riding his dick. he can’t be mad at how you’ve woken him up.

“again.” he says, this time grabbing your hips guiding you the way he wants it. you follow his lead, rolling them forward and then backwards. you do this for a couple of minutes at a slow pace before picking up. breasts beginning to bounce.

he cups one of them with his hand and gives it a squeeze. he watches your head tilt back. you can feel the itch of the thong riding up your vagina. your pussy is pulsating.

your fingers itch to grab his cock and shove it in you. your manicured nail runs down his abs stopping just above the strings of his trunks.

“do it,” he says, you can hear the whimper in his voice. he’s trying to sound demanding, but ultimately fails under your touch. his heart is thudding against his chest watching you fish around for him.

you finally grab his wet hard cock and shove it in. you ride him nice and slow, hips still moving in the forward and backward motion he likes.

you let out a throaty moan. you feel like every part of you has been stretched and pull for weeks straight. you thought your body would be so tired of this, but it’s the exact opposite. you crave lance in more than just any way. you clench around him, fingernails digging into his bare red chest. you can feel your legs are giving out but you keep riding.

his fingers are creating bruises against your skin. he’s about to come. you know damn well how to make him feel so good, it makes him hard even more. when his eyes flicker up, he sees the sweat built up against your forehead, the beads drip down your nose, your chest is visibly rising and falling.

“come in me, please.” it comes out so faint. Lance isn’t sure he heard you quite right until you repeat it one more time with meaning, “cum. inside me.”

he doesn’t hold back, he finally exhales a relieved sigh and helps you off his body. he grabs a couple of ice cubes from the cooler and places them all over your sweaty body.

your eyelids flutter open, you barely have the strength to look up at him. a whole week of sex didn’t sound bad at the start, but you both couldn’t wait to rest.

[beelmons]

Experimental Pedagogy (18+)

cw: reader is a college student, oral fem receiving, mentions of economy concepts

A/N: I wrote this as a gift for our adorable @cassiemartzz , i hope this can get you going through the semester and i'm also very sorry i wrote it like a month before it ends lksjskf ily

The night had fallen earlier than you expected. You weren’t sure at what moment all that time had gone by, and it wasn’t the first time you had that sensation. Whenever you tried to study, specifically when it came to your international economy class, the minutes just seemed to slip through your fingers away from your grasp, and the information did the exact same thing away from your brain. The topic was so boring, not even a reward system was keeping you focused, nothing was motivation to swallow down endless concepts of useless themes. 

Spencer, being the boy genius that he was, had long figured out perhaps mental stimuli was not enough; he made it his little project to find a way you could feel yourself getting compensated for your hard work. And he tried, and tried: money, food, baked goods, objects, trips, they all worked for a limited period of time until you lost interest. He wondered if you were simply doomed to struggle with concentration, but it pained him to see you so frustrated, so tired, he couldn’t just give up. And he didn’t. After a million tries, Spencer finally found the way to keep your brain engaged. 

Physical stimuli was the answer. 

“Who’s considered the father of the modern day global economy?” he asked, his face not moving to look at you. 

He was settled in between your legs while you sat on your desk, a completely dark room barely illuminated by your computer screen. Your underwear had been gone for about an hour, and he had yet to reach your exposed core. He had gotten frustratingly close, though. 

This is how the game went: You had two hours to study as much as you could, he would read alongside you, albeit constantly finish way faster than you, and whenever you finished a paragraph he removed a piece of clothing, or caressed a specific spot, or kissed a well-liked area. Once you were ready for a test, he would kneel before your desk to press kisses to your inner thigh as he asked questions. For every right answer, you got a kiss closer to your slit, and if you were good enough, you could have his tongue. 

You only got to cum once you aced it. 

“Adam Smith.” you muttered, your tongue tracing over your lips as you watched his lips get closer to your needy cunt. 

“That’s my girl.” he grinned. 

His hands were spreading your legs open, since once you had dared to almost crush his skull and use his tongue without completing the test. He enjoyed so, very much, but academic integrity was crucial, and he was not about to let you take advantage once again. 

His lips attached to the remaining gap of skin next to your outer lips, his kiss was more of a bite, a rough suck that you were sure was going to be sore the next morning. Your back arched at the feeling, and you let out a wince. 

“Name of the international trade treaty held between the US, Canada, and Mexico.” his breath hitting your skin was driving you crazy, honestly, you had never wanted him to shut up more. 

“NAFTA.” you said with resolution. 

Spencer's head tilted to be facing your sex, and just when you thought he was going to give you what you needed, he simply blew hot air against the area of your clit. 

“That’s the old name.” he said, and you could feel absolute rage boil within you. 

“USMCA!” you yelled, anger plastered all over your tone. 

That emotion, however, dissipated in a blink once you finally felt the relief of his tongue. He wasn’t going to let you go that easy, though, so his muscle just trailed over your outer labia, not going into your slit or clit just yet. However, he thought you deserved your reward, and he purposely let his nose brush, although barely, against the sensitive nub. 

You did try to buck your hips forward, mind you, but his hands stopped you. Once he had licked enough, leaving your skin as wet as your insides were, he spoke up again. 

“This concept refers to the ability of a country to naturally produce goods for a cheaper price.” he asked against your core. 

Regardless of Spencer’s stoic demeanor as a teacher, he was just a man, and the passion he felt for teaching was often overtaken by the passion he felt for your body. While you scrambled  through your mind in an attempt to find the answer, his lips kept pressing soft kisses around the area, still not allowing his tongue to insert anywhere. 

“Come on,” he stopped his movements to raise his gaze at you “I know you know this, say it.” 

Your eyes locked with his, ever big and shiny like a puppy’s; there was a certain desperation in his eyes, and your eyebrows raised in question, after all he was supposed to be there to support you. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” he rolled his eyes lightly at your judging expression “I’m dying to taste you.” 

The praise disguised as a complaint gave you the final encouragement you needed, and it was like your brain sparkled with knowledge all of a sudden. 

“Comparative advantage.” you said. 

His face disappeared as soon as his brain fact-checked your answer; his eyes no longer locked with yours, since his tongue was entangled in your insides. You could feel him prod inside and out, taking his time to coat his tongue in your taste. Your legs threatened to close on his face again, a tight grip stopping you from it. Your hands locked on his messy hair, trying to keep him in place. 

You were already overstimulated as it was, having had him down there for over an hour, teasing and caressing like you were senseless, like he didn’t have any effect on you, even though he was well aware it was the opposite. Your back was arched against your study chair, and the only sounds in the entire place were your moans mixed by the erotic slurps of his mouth. 

“One last question.” once he felt you clench around him, dangerously close to your climax, he stopped his movements “What’s the main economic indicator of a country regarding the production of goods and services?” 

His tongue didn’t truly leave you unattended, instead, it just moved in painfully slow circles around your clit, keeping you on edge. Your breath was awfully rushed, making it unable for you to respond right away regardless of your clear knowledge of the answer. He took a long, slow lap at your core, trailing up every inch of it, all while having his big honey-like eyes fixed on your hot face. 

“GDP or Gross Domestic Product.” you answered when your eyes met hiss. 

Without breaking eye contact, his lips wrapped around your nup, and his tongue moved side to side at a rapid pace. You let out a pleasured, high-pitched noise as your climax took over you, your fluids spilling all over his face. Once you stopped trembling from the pleasure, he took his time to clean up any moisture left on your skin, sending light bolts through your veins whenever he touched an over-sensitive spot. 

“Jesus, Spencer.” you said, defeatedly laying against your seat “I still don’t understand how I can retain any information when you eat me out like that.” 

“Actually,” he began, standing up from the floor “the basis for this technique relies on unconscious rewarding instead of conscious rewarding. While you’re taking the test you will remember the sensations instead of the concepts directly, and eventually your unconscious will just make the connection between the two. Similar to how we sometimes use smells to help people remember facts about a case.” 

He moved behind you as he explained, laying his hands on your shoulders; you had only covered half the material for the final, so there was plenty left to go. You were listening intently to his ramble, and you couldn’t lie to yourself, it was a little bit so you had an excuse to not continue studying. 

“So, you’re telling me I’m going to be horny in the middle of the test if they ask me about GDP?” you asked in a half joke, however, he actually took his time to consider the possibility. 

“There’s a 30% chance that will happen. Don’t worry, though, I can be there to take care of you right after it.” from behind, he grabbed at your chin and tilted your head back to press a gentle kiss to your lips, almost spiderman-like. Immediately, he dragged a chair closer to your desk, ready to go back to studying with you “Come on, we still have two more blocks to go.”

[punemy-spotted]

WIP Wednesday: GUESS WHAT

It's Wednesday, my students are in the midst of finals, and I get to work from home during a rainstorm. None of these things are related but these things mean things are happening and I'm taking a certain fic off hiatus to update it (hopefully soon, oh my God, please spare me from the Writer's Curse)

Anywaysssss...

She's baaaaaaaaaaackkkkk

If you would like to be tagged in updates, please check out my (new and improved) taglist and sign up! I have also created an archive where just my fics and drabbles will be reblogged (and tagged), over at @punemys-library. It's a little under construction, but we're working on it.

Content Warnings for this Snippet: Gun mention, bullet mention, smoking mention, reference to funerals and gravesites,

Senator Andy Barber’s Chief of Staff keeps a loaded gun in the glove compartment of every car he drives, a force of habit the Senator is probably grateful for right about new, even in absentia. While he pays for the final tank of gas he’ll need to get you both to where you need to go, you open it up and empty the clip, leave the bullets in the cup-holder save for the two you put back. He doesn’t bother questioning the sight of them when he returns, just glances at you briefly and hands you a cup of water, burnt coffee you immediately regret taking a sip of.

You finish it before the car’s back on the highway.

The road ahead is a lonely one, just your car’s headlights there to cut through the snowy gloom, William Russo the only driver half-insane enough to be driving through this particular stretch of the Appalachian trail this late at night with a snowstorm raging all around the both of you.

You never picked up smoking as a habit, really, — too devout then, too late now — but as the suffocating silence settles in alongside the cold in your bones, you can’t help but crave one. Just one, just something to quest the churning anxiety and growing dread in your belly.

You risk a glance to Billy, the pale white of his knuckles deepening as his grip on the wheel shifts, eyes catching yours when he feels the weight of your gaze on him, You getting tired?

Are you?

Exhaustion feels too far away, adrenaline still holding your eyes open, anxious twitches keeping your muscles uncomfortable in the passenger seat, unable to settle down. Even the shake of your head is too cautious to be definitive, watching, waiting. Say nothing.

Not long now, he tells you by way of an attempt at comfort, eyes back on the road, Safe house in a few hours.

Alaska.

Not the state — though you wouldn’t mind, all things considered. The house you pull up to is… nice, if made gloomy in snowy isolation. You almost wonder how a Senator’s newly-hired Chief of Staff even manages to have an isolated “safe house” just on the edge of the US-Canada border, with access to what seemed like a completely unmanned and unlicensed border crossing — and then you decide that question isn’t even top fifty on your list of questions you’ve had about your day.

Days, even. Days full of memories of caskets and graveside services turning into grave danger reminding you why you’re here, pulling up to a wood-and-brick prison rather than your palace of glass and steal.

Domain. Dungeon.

The snow outside is starting to turn into a full-bore blizzard, but the house itself is warm enough to boil your blood, fire crackling in the hearth and Billy handing you a mug of something warm and medically cleared for your consumption, I just got the news — he’s awake, he tells you, taking a seat on the armchair across from you with a glass of whiskey in hand, He’ll want to hear from you, make sure you’re safe.

Safe. The word feels all wrong, especially here. Especially now.

You are not safe, you are not safe, he will find you he will always find you.

[sergeifyodorov]

plz share the willy xenophobia discussion at your leisure i would love to read about it

Right. So.

Willy was drafted in 2014, a top-ten pick with legacy pedigree, and unlike the other two in Toronto's Big Three, took a little longer to develop -- Marner spent his D+1 in the OHL before coming up, Matthews made the team right away, but Willy spent time in the SHL and about a year and a half in the Marlies before joining at the end of the 15-16 season, after Marner was drafted but before Matthews was. Needless to say, expectations of him weren't quite as high, but he was firmly expected to be part of the Big Rebuild, too.

He's also Swedish. The first Europeans in the NHL were Swedish, and to this day the highest proportion of non-North Americans is Swedish. However, in order to understand the Swedes, we have to talk about the Russians.

The 1972 Summit Series is probably the most important single event in the history of hockey -- eight games, the first true best-on-best in the world, since the NHL and the Olympics have always had a fraught relationship and they weren't allowed to attend. If we really wanted to talk about the Summit Series, we could be here for years, but, the point: on this particular world stage, it was finally understood that Europeans -- Russians, but everyone else, too -- played a different style of hockey, one that emphasized a side-to-side possession-based game instead of the Canadian dump-and-chase style. The Euro style involves far less checking. And less fighting.

North American (largely Canadian, but nonetheless) hockey has always had a culture of hypermasculinity around it, and this relative lack of violence, as well as pre-existing stereotypes of the time, gave the impression that Europeans were "soft."

Back to Willy. Go back to look at draft-era Willy, before he learns how to grow facial hair -- not Mitch's baby face, but not Auston's full-grown jawline. A layer of puppy fat that disguises all but the most defined of his muscles. Silky blond hair and a dopey smile. He dresses expensively, breaks into fits of giggles in interviews, doesn't seem to take anything as seriously as he should. Because this is Toronto, and we feel as if we are about to enter a new golden age, we expect the most out of our prospects -- solemnity, hard work, not a flaxen-haired nepotist idiot. Especially not a soft flaxen-haired nepotist idiot.

Willy Nylander, raised and trained on a different continent, doesn't hit much, preferring to carry his puck in than dump it. He's speedy, patient with a shot, would rather make a dangerous chance than one through three lanes of traffic. He doesn't fight, doesn't get mad, scores less when the team's really going, and he held out to the last possible moment in his RFA negotiations. Every single one of these drives people mad -- people here trailing all after Don Cherry.

If you're not familiar with Don Cherry, imagine the worst Leafs uncle you could possibly realize, give him opinions of similar attitude on the rest of the NHL, and then understand that he had a national platform for decades. Cherry, fervent nationalist that he is, touted the "tough" Canadian forechecking style, adored players who would walk off injuries -- never mind their lives afterwards -- and once expressed his disdain for visors (you know, the thing that... protects your eyes... and a lot of your face...) by saying that only the Europeans and Francophones liked them. (He also got kicked off of Hockey Night in Canada for anti-immigrant statements. Yee haw.)

Cherry hated Nylander the entire time, explicitly citing his Swedishness (and implying a lack of toughness, or winning quality, which he equated) as a reason that the Leafs would never win with him. Here's an article from right around draft day with Cherry's opinion -- he says the Leafs, should they choose to contend, should forgo Europeans and instead take Canadians. He also cites Ritchie's high penalty-minute count as a valuable item. (I don't know about you, but generally I think regularly putting your team on the penalty kill is a detriment, not a strength).

Furthermore, there's a poll at the end of this article asking the reader if they think Cherry was right. Most people think he was. He was hugely popular not only because he was a charismatic figure (I keep talking about him as if he's dead; he's not, just no longer working) but because his ideas were popular. People believed, and still very much do, that Swedishness is softness and that softness is bad. And as -- as a Leaf -- arguably one of the most visible Swedes in the NHL, one of those tasked with shouldering the weight of the most known franchise, Willy bore a lot of it.

I think part of the reason I didn't mention it in the original post was because unlike Mitch, Willy doesn't seem to let it get to him a lot -- he's a blissfully oblivious Barbie-doll idiot -- and, again, because expectations on him weren't quite as high. That being said, it's still important to discuss imho !

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (Chapter 12)

[Can also be read on AO3]

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 4.6 K

Warnings: Minors DNI - threats, mentions of violence, swearing, morally gray decision making, smoking

Summary: Rory and Price get their chance to interrogate Zorokov

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis

October 21, 2017 07:36 - Safehouse

The awkward tension between them was thick. Murky and deep. A confused jumble of emotions that neither had made a concerted effort of facing. Rory decided to fall back on her old trick of sweeping it all under the rug, ignoring the uncomfortable gnawing inside by turning her attention to her mission. Focusing on what she could control, burying herself neck deep in what she had power over rather than feeling like she was stuck in a current leading her astray. While Price, on the other hand, seemed to remain set on the idea of keeping her under his protection. Unwavering and absolute as he was with all decisions he made. He knew what was best, even if she wasn’t willing to recognize that for herself – yet . The elephant in the room had only doubled in size, each having spilled their guts as best they could at the other's feet. Painfully aware of where they each stood on the issue. A brief hiatus put on the debate as they tried to go about their day as normal, despite being trapped in a hotel room together. 

While the sound of shower water battered the stall in the bathroom, Rory did her best to maintain professional distance in the bedroom. Cleaning her weapon while sitting on her double bed, meticulous as she slid each section of the gun apart and swabbed and wiped it down. The cigarette dangled from the corner of her lip, smoke trailing along the side of her face as a section of dark hair hung in front of her eyes, her gun oil stained fingertips drifting through the strands to brush it back behind her ear. Tapping her cigarette into the ashtray sat beside her on the bed, her fingers shook, the hand they belonged to absentmindedly drifting to her neck, rubbing at the tender bruising that circled it – covering them with makeup, burying them below the collar of her sweater – she did everything possible not to look at the discolored patches of skin where the blood had bloomed under the surface. 

It was all still too raw, too real. 

Her thoughts went to dark places as the constant stream of shower water helped provide the white noise to slip into a state of near hypnosis. She knew she was still in the safehouse even as the burning sensation of cold marble crept over her back, the smell of leather furniture filling her nostrils and then the bleach…Her nails dug at her chest, feeling her breath catch in her throat. She had always wondered how long she could hold her breath for – it was certainly never one of her strengths before, especially not as a smoker – but she supposed she had received her answer: Two minutes . Two excruciating, long minutes. 

Deep in her work and in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed her mobile had begun vibrating on the nightstand, having returned to dragging the wiry cleaning brush through the barrel of her pistol, pulling it back and forth, scraping out the old flakes of debris that had accumulated. She wasn’t aware the shower water had stopped either. Deaf to the world around her, numb to it, as if it had become entirely dull and grayed out just like it had been that morning. Lackluster, just like she felt. 

The loud buzzing of her phone finally grabbed her attention as her eyes rose to meet the bathroom door opening. Price entered the room with just a towel wrapped around his waist, hair lying flat and damp, the freckles and body hair of his torso on show as his hard muscle flexed under the soft flesh that covered it, feet padding in full strides across the carpet. She still hadn’t entirely left the confines of her head even as their gaze locked, his piercing stare narrowing beneath his furrowed brow the longer he looked at her. Saying nothing, he glanced over at her phone on the table, and then back at her. His jaw flexed, a little tic slipping through the cracks of the stoic soldier’s wall. There was no heat to the look he gave her, more a survey of her reactions, realizing something wasn’t adding up. 

Rory quickly gave him a sheepish grin, pretending she was perfectly alright despite knowing he had already read her like a book. Putting her tools down and grabbing her cigarette, she placed it back to her lips. No longer stuck in the act of repetition, broken free of the cycle, the spiral pulled taut once more. Reaching behind her and collecting the still ringing phone from the table, the call display informed her it was Andrew. She placed the phone on the bed and returned to cleaning her gun. “Andy, you’re on speaker.”

“Oh, thank Christ. It’s a miracle hearing your voice, Sinclair. Do you know how bloody worried I've been?”

She rubbed at her brow, her finger gently trailing over the scabbed over gash that cut through it. “Enough to not call until now?”

Price gave a low chuckle on the other side of the room, a smirk pulling at his lips as he cinched the waist of his pants together to button it. She gave him a sideways look, taking a drag from her cigarette and a brief moment to appreciate the captain’s form. He shook his head, rubbing the towel through his hair to dry it, leaving his short hair haphazard before he’d return the beanie to its place on top of his head.

“Oi, be nice. I come bearing news.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Smoke streamed past her lips as she spoke, starting to slot her gun back together. 

The smile in Andrew’s voice faded as he continued, "Thought  you should know, Zorokov’s lucid. Have him under guard detail at HSCT Centre hospital. I know it's no interrogation room, but if you want to get your answers, now’s the time to do it.”

Heart rate increasing, a cold sweat made Rory’s hands instantly clammy. She knew she would have to face him down eventually, look him in those cold, dark eyes once again, but there was no denying it was likely too soon. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried to steel herself as she took another long drag of her cigarette.

“What room?” Price’s low, gravelly voice near her ear caused her to open her eyes and find his hand coming to press to the back of her neck, squeezing it softly. She wasn’t alone. He wasn’t going to leave her alone. 

-----

October 21, 2017 – HSCT Centre Hospital, Moscow

“I thought Laswell didn't want us starting a war?” Rory muttered as the heavy metal lift doors opened and she followed Price through the halls of the hospital, carrying their weapon for the negotiation – the laptop – under her arm. Boots thumped against the waxed linoleum floors as she kept pace with the Captain throughout the medical facility, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat as they passed by nurses and doctors, trying to appear as though they were merely any other set of visitors. 

“We won't,” he spoke in a hoarse whisper, his gaze kept forward. Focused . “Leave it to me.”

“John -”

The rasping sigh he tried to let slip past did not go undetected and when he finally bothered to look at her, she could see the quick little curl of his top lip into a sneer. “Your mate got us the in. No point lookin’ a gift horse in the mouth, yeah?”

She pushed her fists deeper into the pockets of her coat, twisting the bits of fluff in between her fingertips, kneading them into miniature stress balls. “So we march in there and do what exactly? Are we actually questioning him, getting answers that we need , or is this just an excuse for you to make him suffer like you wanted to last night?”

“Gonna give ‘im a reason to talk.”

“And what's that supposed to mean, eh?”

With John Price that could be left entirely open to interpretation. From what she had gleaned in their conversations and the things he had done already, he had a moral code, but it was a loose one. One that bent and bowed with whatever came his way, whatever got him to the endgame the fastest with the least amount of resistance. He had been a soldier for longer than her, moved further up through the ranks, had more lives under his command, leading them deeper into the machine that ground up and spat most of them back out just as broken as she was, if not more so. He was drenched in the military’s wanton use of ‘the ends justifying the means'. There was no telling where the cut off was for what he was willing to do, how far he would go.  She knew that. She also knew it wasn’t a way of life most could thrive in, but he had, allowing himself to be morphed by it. It made him dangerous; it made him a threat – it made her happy he was an ally and not someone to face down herself. 

Turning to look at her once more, his slight smirk spread over his features. “It means Laswell’s helping us hit ’im where it hurts.”

Lifting her brow, she realized what he was implying. “We’re going for the jugular?”

He gave her a curt nod and continued forward. “He’s a sittin’ duck and we aren’t wastin’ this opportunity. Not when he's right there. Not after what he did. He’s going nowhere.” He paused and glanced over at her once more. “I told you, you gave us our in.”

Even if she had to bite his face off to do it. 

“Right. Well then…” she shrugged her shoulders and softly sighed. “Let's get this show on the road, eh?”

���Sure you’ll be alright goin’ in there?” The scowl reappeared on his face. Giving her the out once again. He seemed to want to give her every excuse available to turn tail and run or hide.  “I can do it on my own.”

Grabbing his arm and stopping him in his tracks, her fingers delved into the thick material of his coat, eyes boring into him, reminding him just how deadly serious she was. “I want to see what I did to him… I need to see the state I left him in.”

Tipping his head to the side, he looked at her with a cocked brow. “You’re a tough little bird, aren’t you, my girl?”

Rolling her eyes, she let go of his arm. “Christ almighty, would you stop calling me that.”

“What?”

“ Your girl.”

Price smirked as she started walking away quickly with her agitation. “Wouldn’t bother you so much if you didn’t at least partially agree with it, darlin’.”

Rory scoffed and looked over her shoulder back at him. “I swear to god, you just might be one of the most arrogant bastards I’ve ever met.” 

His lips downturned as she said it, tilting his head from side to side, cocking his brow, seemingly debating this fact in his head. 

“Oh, piss off.” She couldn’t help but laugh now, her footsteps slowing as she turned around to face him. “You don’t get to act like this is the first time you’ve ever heard that.”

“What if it is?” His eyes twinkled with just a hint of mischief as he looked at her. Bright and blue under the harsh fluorescent lights and darkened by his brow. 

Taking a short step forward, she gazed up at him, neck craning. “Shame on everyone else who was too scared to say it then.”

Chuckling quietly, his eyes narrowed at her. “You know why, right?”

What would be a motion that would normally put most on edge, an intimidation technique she had seen Price use several times already – his patented death glare – had little effect on her. “Because you’re the big, scary SAS captain that strikes the fear of God into people. I’m well aware, John,” she said, lifting her eyes to the ceiling.

He closed the distance between them, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned forward. “And yet here you are calling me out on it, no fear at all.”

What reason did she have to be scared? Sure he was abrasive, stern, ready to tear someone a new arsehole when needed – but he was still just a man. Willing to make the hard decisions others couldn’t at a moment’s notice, but a man, nonetheless. A man who had already clearly made his intentions known about wanting to keep her safe. Surely she could talk back a little, get a rise out of the highly decorated captain, a man well respected for his accomplishments, carrying the weight of the world and the immensity of his actions on his shoulders. In her eyes, he was more than what the military expected of him even if that was all he wanted to regard himself as. He wasn’t just the ruthless soldier he insisted on portraying. He might have been dangerous, but she had already won him over. 

“Because I still remember you as the clean-shaven Lieutenant.”

Looking down at her through his brow, his head lowered towards her. “Haven’t been him in a long time, darlin’,” he rasped.

“Did he get left behind in the stall of that loo with me?” Rory teased, her smile shifting into an incredibly self-assured smirk.

Price sighed, a little growl slipping from him with frustration.

Patting his forearm, the grin faded from her face and she returned to her professional form, readjusting the laptop under her arm. “Let’s get back to the mission, shall we?” 

------

Reaching the door to the room Zorokov was being kept in to recuperate, they were met by the guard detail organized by MI6 – definitely not police with the way they were dressed, and the assault rifles they carried, afforded the privilege of appearing frightening as hell. With the quick nod of heads, the door was opened, and Price and Rory were granted access to the room where their slumbering target awaited them.  

With the lights dimmed in the room, they moved forward, not caring one way or the other if they woke him up in the process. The thin, pale blue curtain that circled the hospital bed rustled slightly, a breeze shifting the material as the two soldiers passed by it, their shadows sweeping across with what little light there was. Price was quick to grab the two edges of the material in his fists and toss the sections open, damn near tearing the curtains right off the rings that held them. As they parted, splitting open with force, the soldiers came face to face with the Russian, now cuffed to the hospital bed, his lip sewn back together with thick black sutures, face bruised and swollen, mouth stuffed with cotton, hooked up to an IV drip for pain management. 

Rory bit down on the inside of her cheek, she hated just how lightly he seemed to come out of their struggle. Grimacing at the cold hard truth that a marred face was nothing that money couldn’t fix with plastic surgeries. Free from pain, able to sleep as though nothing at all had happened. She wished she’d left more of an indelible mark against him. Taken an eye, cut out his tongue, something to truly remember her by. 

Price couldn’t help the lopsided grin that twisted cruelly at his mouth, his hands pressed to either side of Zorokov’s feet at the end of the bed, hunching over like a guard dog ready to attack, head lowered to stare at the man in a predatory fashion. “Well, take a look at you, sunshine.” The vehement, venomous hate he held for the oligarch – for what he had done – burned behind his eyes as he maintained the cool, calm, collected demeanor of the military captain. 

Heavy eyes surrounded in puce fluttered open and locked on the mutton chopped man, widening at the sight of Rory standing in the corner, showing no sign of cowering in fear of the man who had attacked her only hours ago and in much better shape than he was. 

Stare darkening further, Price barked a command in the husky tone of a man who was used to shouting out orders on a battlefield, “Keep your eyes on me.” 

Zorokov flinched, shifting carefully in his bed. His normally well-coiffed blonde hair left greasy and unkempt. There was no fancy suit to protect him now, no air of dignity or power. He was left strung up like bait for the wolves at the door, and they were prowling. He did as he was told, his attention maintained on the brusque man at the foot of his bed. 

“You know why we’re here. So let’s not play any games, yeah?”

“What are you going to do, Captain Price ?” He emphasized the name in an attempt to regain some power, reminding the two soldiers that this wasn’t one sided, he knew them as well. “Threaten my life?” He nodded his head in Rory’s direction. “Sic your wild dog on me?”

The cold, threatening tone of the captain barely covered the growl that threatened to slip from him. “Oh, I think she had every right to do what she did to you.”

“She ripped off my fucking lip,” the Russian yelled as he shot forward, manic with fury. The IV stand nearly tipping over with the flailing movement of his arm.

“And you tried to kill her!” Price thrusted his pointed finger at Zorokov before moving around the hospital bed with a snarl, grabbing the IV tubing that connected to the Russian’s arm and tore it from the bag. “You deserved everythin’ you got and more.”

“Captain –” 

Her calm voice cut through the chaos. His hand tensed into a fist at his side. The constant stream of liquid dripping onto the floor causing everyone’s teeth in the room to grind. 

“Sir, isn’t there someone else who’s meant to be part of this conversation?”

He shifted his jaw just enough to expose his annoyance, and then flexed his shoulders, letting the broad stretch of them sit tight. Anger flared in his eyes as he tried to remain controlled, staring down at the man who he had wanted to tear asunder. 

“Price…” Rory held out the laptop towards him, trying to reel him back in. 

Glancing over his shoulder with a swallowed sigh, his nose scrunching along with a grimace as if he was swallowing back bile, he took the computer from her and continued his interrogation of the Russian. “Went to a lot of trouble to get this. Did a lot of diggin’ in your dirt. All the shit you’ve been buryin’, tryin’ to hide. But we’ve had our eyes on you for a while. Now it’s all paid off,” Price muttered, seething just being in the company of the Russian. 

“You can’t do anything to me. I’m protected.”

“You might have a lot of powerful friends. So do I. And they’ve all been looking for ways to gut you like a bloody fish.”

“Do what you will, Captain.” The Russian exuded smugness as he leaned back against his pillows, adjusting them as he settled. “I won’t see prison. I won’t be punished. There are too many hands involved and none of them want to get dirty.”

“But you’re happy to, aren’t you?” Price leaned in, gripping the side rail of the hospital bed with white knuckles.

“I’m merely a middleman. Connecting people to things they need. I’m not the villain here.”

“Oh, I think you are.” Price’s eyes narrowed, the crow’s feet by his eyes crinkling without any of the mirth that came with one of his trademark smirks. “You’re certainly not above violence, eh?”

“She seems just fine to me.” Zorokov hummed, his dark eyes landing on Rory, taking in the cuts on her face he’d left behind.

“What did I say?” Price rasped, his tone a clear threat as he gritted his teeth.

His glare returned to the captain. “So what? You have info on my business ventures? Means nothing. They’re all owned by shell companies. Nothing’ll lead back. Do you think I’m new to this?”

Price clenched his jaw once more, the tendons ready to break with the force his molars clamped down on each other, held tight like a steel trap. Opening the laptop, files and logs had been opened, unencrypted, he tossed it onto Zorokov’s lap. “CIA’s been lookin’ into your exploits. Have a whole list o’ your friends. We know exactly how you filter your dirty money. So…” His head tilted the way a canines would before it bared its teeth. “Wanna tell me how a trafficker hops into bed with terrorists?”

The Russian remained entirely self-satisfied, hardly put off by the threat he was currently under being delivered by the two soldiers. “Exploiting the market. These are countries that don’t have GDP – just war. They want freedom, their peace? Need to pay for it somehow,” he said with a shrug.

Rory’s lip curled at just the thought. The lack of humanity in taking advantage of a situation like that. Seeing human lives as a commodity. Her rage steadily boiled inside her, the blood rushing in her ears. Trying so hard to swallow it and keep her resolve. “Christ, you have no conscience at all, do you?”

A low chuckle filled the room, and her blood ran cold at the sound. “Business isn’t about conscience. It's about profit.”

Her hand curled into a fist, her nails carving crescents into the palm of her hand. “So, money’s all that matters to you then?” The anger had all faded from her voice, there was a cold defiance to it instead. Resolute in her next actions. “You must have Swiss bank accounts just spilling with rubles. Shell corporations won’t do so well without an influx of funds. A plug in the system would certainly make things difficult for you and your ilk, wouldn’t it?”

“Something like that would take you months… years to make happen.”

“Unless it's already been in the works.” Price’s smirk grew as he stood up tall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Known, suspected, and likely targets…and based on what we  know about you, well , you were pushed up that list.” He slipped the phone from his pocket and tapped on the laptop. “I suggest you keep your eyes on that screen.”

With a darkened stare, Zorokov straightened himself to sit up square in his bed. His attention turned to the computer sitting on his lap. 

Getting in contact with Laswell, Price had the phone to his ear as she answered his call. 

“ John. ” 

“In a meeting with Zorokov. You’ve got his financials available, yeah?”

“ I do .”

“Bleed the shell accounts first.”

The banking information on the laptop screen showed the drain on the account as fund blockages were accepted and transfers put on hold. 

“I have a feeling your comrades might not like that their money’s tied up with you for much longer. Might not be so safe after all. Men like that don’t take too kindly to being fucked around, eh? You’re about to owe a lot to some dangerous people. Would be a real shame if you didn’t have the funds to keep yourself alive, wouldn’t it?”

Zorokov’s eye began to twitch, his lip curling into a snarl.  “Threaten me all you want, it doesn’t change anything. War still goes on and there are those of us who will prosper.”

“Fundin’ both sides certainly helps, doesn’t it?”

“You think I’m the first to do so? Look at your precious America, Britain…you think they aren’t complicit in the same fucking thing? CIA, MI6, FSB – they are all the same. Manufacturing conflict for their own ends. War is good business.”

“And Al Ghulam…” Rory stepped into the light, looking him dead in the eye. “What’s the tie to him?” 

“Never heard of him.” Glancing away from her, his body gave her all the telltale signs of a lie. The heavy swallow, shortening of breath, the sweat on the brow. He was breaking down. And an incredibly shitty liar when he wasn’t the one in control. He had grown lazy, complacent with all that money at his fingertips. 

He stood no chance against her.

“Bullshit,” she growled. “I was the one to get him to talk. I know he was working with a European PMC group when it came to transferring human lives across from Iraq in trade for weapons, a group that was working with ISIS.” She drew closer, coming within reach of the oligarch, her eyes flaring. “Why do I get the feeling you were behind that group?”

Rory and Zorokov locked eyes, like a bull seeing red she was ready to charge and attack. Ready to gore the bastard for what he had done, for the acts he was complicit in. Striking at the jugular just as Price agreed they would. 

She decided to play chicken with the man.

Her stare never wavering, she waited for him to talk. Waiting for the lack of pain medication flowing into his system to have its desired effect. Her voice lowered to a harsh whisper as she leaned over, crowding him. “Tell me I’m right.”

Zorokov flinched first.

“You hear that?” Price spoke into his phone, giving Laswell another weak spot to exploit. “Come across any ties to PMCs in the records?”

“A few…” Laswell replied.

“How many working in Syria or Iraq?”

“ Just one. Based out of Kastovia, they’ve been in and out of the middle east region for years . Recently there was an influx of funds from a Saudi oil shell.”

“Saudis, eh?” Price’s eyes lifted to meet Rory’s across from him. “You ready for a change of scenery, Sergeant?”

They were heading to the desert, back to the sand and the beaming hot heat. It was still odd to think that she had only been back in England for the last six months, put on desk duty with the SRR, and now here she was headed back into the chaos she had been given a reprieve from. Tying up loose ends that she never thought she would get the chance to. Healing old wounds after opening them up again on this mission. However, one glaring problem still existed, sitting in the hospital bed before them.

“And him?” Rory tipped her head towards the Russian in their midst.

“He's not out of the woods yet. Intelligence is going to love to get their hooks in ‘im.”

She scowled, her fixed stare burning a hole between Zorokov’s eyes. “Protection. Really ?” Her gaze shifted back to the captain; jaw clenched tight. It felt like a punch to the gut, another of these bastards being given the last thing they deserved. A slap on the wrist and then every transgression hidden from sight once more. 

“For now. Come on, Sergeant. We got what we needed.” Price closed the laptop and scooped it under his arm. “Let's move.”

She snarled, giving the Russian one last glaring look before leaving the room. Shoving her way past the security detail, fury coiled inside her. The mission wasn’t about stopping Zorokov, nor cutting off one of the heads of the hydra. It was about his ties to the greater threat, the terrorists. It was about weapons. War . The machine she was very much a part of. Women and children be damned, it was never about them.

[waterfallswords]

location: canadian wilderness (idk canada lol)

starter for: lilja visser and tofa visser @gloriouswhispers

;

"What if it worsens?" Lilja's words drift lightly on the icy air, trailing after Tofa's determined strides through the snowed woods. The gusts seem to gather strength, weaving bitter whispers through the forest's frosty silence. Despite their furs and cloaks, the chill gnaws at them relentlessly. Lilja deliberately lags behind the other wolf, her weariness in every step. Every tired muscle protesting against the relentless cold and the hours of their travel. Only the faint echo of her family beckons her onward, and finding them is a flickering flame amidst the wintry gloom. But for now, finding shelter is their priority as dusk dips through the skies. Sol the sun Goddess chased below the clouds by the giant wolf Skoll. Instantly, Lilja feels a frown pull at her lips as she thinks of the Jansen wolf. "Tofa, reconsider." Lilja's voice carries a note of urgency next, cutting through the biting wind. "Venturing deeper into this forest might not be the best idea after all. Do you truly believe anyone would have built a home out here? These outsiders...they would not even be able to build one by themselves. And could they withstand this cold? Survive? It seems beyond imagining." with a derisive snort, she exhales disbelief into the frigid air. "Weak, all of them. They haven't a hope."

[citruszeph]

Pursuit of Truth

Pairing: Russia/Canada Kinkmeme Prompt can be found Here Summary: Ivan is more perceptive than others realize and he's noticed a few things about Canada. Warnings: Non-Consensual Touching, Attempted Groping, Hidden Gender, Gender Reveal Read on AO3

It was the little things that tipped Ivan off. Things like the lack of facial hair, how Matthew sat and carried himself, his posture, his quiet and almost feminine voice, and his avoidance to touch. Of course, all these things could just be chalked up to youth or insecurity but Ivan was far more perceptive than most people gave him credit for. Though, as certain as he was about Matthew's identity, he couldn't be sure until he had gained confirmation. After all, if quiet little Canada was really a girl, then Ivan was curious to know more. Matthew had always piqued his interest and now it had been elevated to another level of curiosity. How was he to just leave the topic be? He had to know.

Ivan cornered Matthew after their latest meeting. Well, it was hard to call it cornering when they were almost the same height. Though Matthew was not quite as bulky, he had broad shoulders and a strong body. He had seen him hold his own against America well enough when they tussled and that was certainly an indication of strength. Ivan had always had an appreciation for physical strength, especially when it came to someone who could handle him. He supposed that's why he liked to antagonize America so much.

"Hello, Canada!" Ivan greeted, cheerful as ever as he fell into step with him as they all filed out of the meeting room. Matthew looked up from his phone and slid it into his pocket, politely giving Ivan his attention.

"Uh, hey Russia." He nodded his head with the greeting, light brown curls bouncing, blonde highlights shining under the horribly bright lights. "Did you need something? I'm meeting up with England for lunch soon."

"Yes, actually. I have a couple of things my boss wanted me to talk to you about. I won't take too much of your time. Pinky promise!" Ivan chuckled and grinned. Matthew sighed and checked his watch quickly. That was another thing, Ivan had noticed; Matthew's hands were slender and calloused and didn't hold the same veins that most men had. It was perhaps a silly thing to base a hunch on, but Ivan was certain he was right about it.

"Yeah, okay. I've got some time to spare." Matthew steered them away from the main hall and into one of the smaller meeting rooms. He set his briefcase on the table and turned to face Ivan, palms resting on the table and holding him up. "Alright. What's up?"

"I have to admit, I did lead you here under false pretenses." Ivan started. His hands were clasped behind his back as he stepped closer. Matthew raised an eyebrow and stood up straight. "So, I apologize for that. But, I do have a question." He didn't stop his advances, noticing the way Matthew tensed when they were so close that their chests almost touched. Ivan unclasped his hands to reach up and tuck a stray curl behind Matthew's ear.

"I've been noticing things, about you. Things that might not be obvious to others since you're so quiet, but you've always held my interest." Up close, Ivan could see the light smattering of freckles on Matthew's face, a little scar on his temple, and the round softness of his cheeks. "Forgive my bluntness but I don't want to dance around the subject. Are you a woman, Canada?"

To the younger nation's credit, he didn't offer much of a reaction but Ivan could see the clench in his jaw and the twitch of his eye. With a firm hand on Ivan's chest, Matthew pushed him back a little to put space between them. "I don't know why you think this kind of joke is funny, but it's not. And no, I'm not a girl."

Ivan hummed and moved his hand to place it over Matthew's, gloved fingers trailing down his wrists. "Are you sure? There's no shame in it, or at least I don't think so." Ivan could feel Matthew's muscles tense as he trailed his hand higher up his arm.

"Russia." His voice was firm and he kept his gaze level. "I don't appreciate this. I don't think it's funny and I don't know where you got this idea from. If you don't actually have any business to talk about, I'm leaving." Ivan could tell how much it upset him, the way his tone dropped lower to be intimidating, though still polite as ever.

"Of course, of course." Ivan let go and stepped back. "It's just, I'm not joking. I notice these things, Canada. Perhaps I'm wrong, but I doubt that I am. I would understand why you would hide it, in a world like this. You would be at a disadvantage. But, I wouldn't tell anyone. I'm very good at keeping secrets." Ivan giggled, still as cheerful as he was when they entered the room.

"Drop it. I'm not a woman, I don't care about your theories or ideas about who I am. You're wrong." Matthew's voice held anger and he turned to grab his briefcase and like a predator stalking its prey, Ivan took his chance.

He stepped forward again to wrap his arms around Matthew's waist, holding him in place, flush against his chest. His nose buried against Matthew's neck and he took in a deep breath. "I've never met a man that smelled as good as you. Even with modern-day washes." He murmured, breath hot against Matthew's neck. "I'm just so curious..."

"Russia! Get off!" And there it was, the shift in Matthew's voice. Far too high and sweet to be a man's, surprised and caught off guard. "What is wrong with you?" She squirmed and pried at his arms with expected strength, but Ivan held steadfast. Ivan shivered at the gasp she let out when his hand slipped beneath her button-up, untucking it. Even if he couldn't feel her skin against his, he could feel the firm muscle beneath the soft fat that padded her stomach.

"Nothing is wrong with me, I just want to pursue the truth," Ivan answered like it was the simplest thing in the world. With her shirt untucked, Ivan undid her belt and the button on her trousers. His other arm stayed wrapped firmly around her waist still though he did let out a huff of air as she drove her elbow into his stomach and slammed her foot down on his. Even with the heavy-duty boots he wore, Ivan was certain it would bruise. Ivan was familiar with pain so when she brought her head back into his face with a sharp crack, Ivan hardly let out anything more than a grunt but his grip loosened enough for her to jerk away from him and shove him away.

Matthew's face was twisted into anger as she snatched her briefcase off the table and stalked towards the door. "Go fuck yourself, Ivan. If you pull something like that again I've fucking kill you." Ivan hadn't heard her speak like that in so long, used to her passive-aggressive behavior rather than outright aggressive. It made his blood run hot and he knew he had to pursue this thread, even as she slammed the door behind her.

[charlesandmartine]

Wednesday 28th June 2023

Three surprises: firstly the Australian Pinot Grigio was ok, secondly an error message came up on the Toyota telling us we have a slow puncture, possibly, and thirdly it was 34 degrees today! In Canada!

Naramata was founded in 1907 by a highly successful Irish born soft fruit farmer, John Moore Robinson. He was offering acreage to people interested in fruit ranching. The new town was to be built for people of good character, no riff raff. And that is by all accounts pretty much the way it still is today. It is the thinking man's Penticton; large town down the road.

About the same time as all this, the Kettle Valley Railway was being constructed linking Naramata to Hope where we came from yesterday. The name of the town has a interesting story behind it. Our John Moore Robinson had a bit of an interest in spiritualism and the wife of the local postmaster, Mrs Anna Gillespie, was a prominent medium. In a seance she channelled the voice of the Sioux Indian Chief Big Moose. The Chief spoke of his dear wife 'Narramattah', calling her the 'Smile of Manitou '. Robinson was moved by all this and the name stuck. Naramata, not Big Moose. Interesting thing was that Mrs Gillespie was caught up in the San Francisco earthquake, so she clearly didn't see that one coming!

Well enough of all that. Naramata is a cumly little town and anyone with a few bob would find it highly agreeable. We just needed a few things to do in the short time we are here. The local museum equipped us with a little map and a few ideas. We rejoined therefore the Kettle Valley Railway trail just up the road and walked 7 km along it as far as the tunnels and then 7km back. A British engineer, Andrew McCulloch, apparently designed it in 1910 but the really impressive part of it is that a) it was built at all and b) the skill and sheer hard graft involved in building it. Men came from Italy, Scandinavia and central Europe and it is said it took black powder and muscle to build it. Today it is a fantastic recreational facility so high up above the Lake Okanagan with such great views across it. We were regularly overtaken by cyclists buzzing along the wide gravel avenue of Apache Pines. It felt very Mediterranean as the sun beat down and we were engulfed by the strong perfume of the pine forest which hung heavily on the breeze and all in peace and total silence save for the scrunch our feet made on the gravel path. Unlike the Mediterranean, there were no Cicadas chirping in the undergrowth.

High scores for bird watching. Red Tailed Hawk, Pileated Woodpecker, Barn Swallows and a female Hummingbird!

Bryson, who always has high praise and a passion for Great Britain says that we might be a very small, over populated country but we all too often underate what we have. He says that we might not have the highest mountains, the largest lakes, the longest rivers, but what we have is an awful lot of fantastic stuff packed into a very small space. What we have witnessed here is a sort of Great Britain on steroids. Huge mountains, massive lakes and vast rivers. What we have seen so far is totally mind boggling and we can't wait to see even more.

ps. We went to get some more of the Australian Pinot Grigio from the local very expensive store and they've run out, completely!!!! So now we are down to cheap Australian Riesling!!! Not sure how Martine will cope with that!

We will have better economic choice when we can get to a saver supermarket.

pps No bears on the trail, but apparently we have something else to worry about now. Rattlesnakes have been spotted! I don't know about anyone else, but sucking venom from a third party backside would truly make it a memorable holiday.

[bellshotelcountryclub]

Cycling Holidays: A Perfect Blend of Adventure and Relaxation

Cycling holidays have surged in popularity as a perfect combination of adventure, fitness, and relaxation.

Whether you're an avid cyclist or a casual rider, cycling holidays offer a unique way to explore new destinations, experience different cultures, and stay active.

Here’s a detailed look at why cycling holidays should be on your travel radar.

Benefits of Cycling Holidays

Health and Fitness

Cardiovascular Health: Cycling is an excellent aerobic exercise that boosts heart health.

Muscle Strength: Regular cycling improves muscle tone and strength, especially in the lower body.

Weight Management: It helps in burning calories, aiding in weight management.

Mental Well-being: The physical activity combined with fresh air and scenic views enhances mental health, reducing stress and anxiety. If you are planning for a Cycling holidays then you may visit this website https://bells-hotel.co.uk/.

Environmental Impact

Eco-Friendly Travel: Cycling is a sustainable mode of transport that reduces your carbon footprint.

Less Congestion: By cycling, you contribute to less traffic congestion and pollution in popular tourist destinations.

Cost-Effective

Affordable Travel: Cycling holidays can be more affordable compared to traditional holidays. You save on transportation costs like fuel and public transport.

Budget Accommodation: Cyclists often stay in budget-friendly accommodations like hostels, campsites, or bed-and-breakfasts.

Popular Destinations for Cycling Holidays

Europe

The Netherlands: Known for its extensive cycling infrastructure, flat terrain, and picturesque landscapes.

France: Offers a variety of routes, from the scenic Loire Valley to the challenging climbs in the Alps.

Italy: Famous for its scenic coastal routes in Tuscany and the Amalfi Coast.

Asia

Vietnam: A popular destination for cycling through rice paddies, mountains, and along the Mekong Delta.

Japan: The Shimanami Kaido is a well-known route offering stunning sea views and the opportunity to visit several islands.

North America

USA: The Pacific Coast Highway offers breathtaking ocean views, while the Great Allegheny Passage is perfect for those seeking a historical journey.

Canada: The Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia is renowned for its challenging terrain and stunning vistas.

Planning Your Cycling Holiday

Route Selection

Skill Level: Choose routes that match your cycling ability. Beginners should opt for flat, short routes, while experienced cyclists can tackle mountainous terrains.

Interests: Consider routes that align with your interests, whether it’s scenic beauty, historical sites, or culinary experiences.

Equipment and Gear

Bikes: Ensure your bike is suitable for the terrain you plan to cover. Mountain bikes for rough trails, road bikes for paved routes.

Safety Gear: Helmets, reflective clothing, and lights are essential for safety.

Repair Kit: A basic repair kit can save you from potential breakdowns in remote areas.

Accommodation

Booking in Advance: Popular cycling routes can get busy, so booking accommodation in advance is advisable.

Cyclist-Friendly Lodging: Look for accommodations that cater specifically to cyclists, offering bike storage and repair facilities. You can explore this link If you are planning for a Cycling holidays.

Conclusion

Cycling holidays are an excellent way to combine physical activity, adventure, and exploration. With careful planning and the right equipment, they can be a memorable and enriching experience. Whether you’re traversing the serene landscapes of Europe, exploring the cultural richness of Asia, or discovering the diverse terrains of North America, cycling holidays offer a unique perspective on travel.

[abigailabi011]

The Ultimate Guide to Compression Socks in Canada: Enhancing Comfort and Health

Unveiling the Benefits of Compression Socks in Canada

Are you seeking comfort and support for your legs while navigating through the diverse landscapes of Canada? Look no further than compression socks! These innovative garments have gained popularity for their ability to enhance circulation, reduce swelling, and alleviate discomfort during prolonged periods of standing, sitting, or traveling. In this comprehensive guide, we delve into the world of compression socks in Canada, exploring their benefits, types, and how to choose the perfect pair for your needs.

Understanding Compression Socks: What Are They?

Compression socks, also known as compression stockings or support socks, are specialized garments designed to apply gentle pressure to your legs, ankles, and feet. This pressure gradually decreases from the ankle upward, promoting better blood flow and preventing fluid buildup in the lower extremities. Made from elastic materials, compression socks come in various styles, lengths, and compression levels to suit different preferences and medical conditions.

The Benefits of Compression Socks in Canada

Improved Circulation: Whether you're exploring the vibrant streets of Toronto or hiking the picturesque trails of Banff National Park, wearing compression socks can enhance blood circulation in your legs, reducing the risk of blood clots and leg fatigue.

Reduced Swelling: Long hours of travel or standing can lead to swelling in the legs and ankles. Compression socks help prevent and alleviate swelling by promoting fluid movement and preventing fluid retention in the lower limbs.

Enhanced Comfort: From the bustling city life of Vancouver to the serene landscapes of Prince Edward Island, compression socks provide cushioning and support for your legs, keeping you comfortable and energized throughout your adventures.

Faster Recovery: Whether you're an avid hiker exploring the rugged terrain of the Canadian Rockies or a dedicated runner conquering the urban trails of Montreal, wearing compression socks post-exercise can aid in muscle recovery by reducing soreness and inflammation.

Types of Compression Socks Available in Canada

When it comes to choosing compression socks in Canada, you'll find a variety of options to suit your needs and preferences:

Graduated Compression Socks: These socks apply the highest level of pressure at the ankle, gradually decreasing as they move up the leg. They are ideal for promoting circulation and preventing swelling during long flights or extended periods of sitting or standing.

Medical Compression Socks: Recommended by healthcare professionals, medical-grade compression socks provide higher levels of compression to manage conditions such as varicose veins, lymphedema, and deep vein thrombosis (DVT).

Athletic Compression Socks: Designed for active individuals, athletic compression socks offer targeted compression to improve muscle performance, reduce fatigue, and enhance recovery during sports activities or intense workouts.

How to Choose the Right Compression Socks for You

With a plethora of options available, selecting the perfect pair of compression socks can seem overwhelming. Here are some factors to consider:

Compression Level: Compression socks are available in different compression levels, typically measured in millimeters of mercury (mmHg). Consult with a healthcare professional to determine the appropriate compression level based on your specific needs and medical conditions.

Size and Fit: Proper sizing is crucial for the effectiveness and comfort of compression socks. Refer to the manufacturer's sizing chart and measure your legs accurately to ensure a snug yet comfortable fit.

Length and Style: Compression socks come in various lengths, including knee-high, thigh-high, and full-length. Choose a length that suits your preferences and provides adequate coverage for your legs.

Material and Breathability: Look for compression socks made from breathable and moisture-wicking materials to keep your legs dry and comfortable, especially during warm weather or intense physical activities.

Where to Buy Compression Socks in Canada

From local pharmacies to specialized medical supply stores, you can find compression socks in Canada at various retailers both in-store and online. Some popular options include:

Pharmacies: Visit your local pharmacy or drugstore to explore a selection of compression socks from reputable brands such as Sigvaris, Medi, and Jobst.

Medical Supply Stores: Specialized medical supply stores often carry a wide range of compression socks, including medical-grade and specialty options for specific conditions.

Online Retailers: Explore online marketplaces and retailers such as Amazon, Well.ca, and BrightLife Direct for a diverse range of compression socks available for purchase from the comfort of your home.

Conclusion

Compression socks offer a myriad of benefits for individuals seeking comfort, support, and improved circulation during their adventures across Canada. Whether you're exploring vibrant cityscapes, hiking rugged trails, or simply enjoying the beauty of nature, investing in a pair of compression socks can enhance your overall well-being and enjoyment of life's experiences. So, why wait? Elevate your comfort and health with compression socks in Canada today!

[goldenmaplephysiotherapy]

From Hockey Injury to Hiking Hero: How Physio Gets You Moving Again

Do you dream of conquering mountain trails but find yourself sidelined by a nagging hockey injury? Don’t let a sports setback keep you from reaching your peak! Here at Physio Maple Ridge, we understand the active spirit that drives Canadians. Our team of experienced physiotherapists in Maple Ridge, BC, is dedicated to getting you back to the activities you love, pain-free.

From Rink to Rehab: Common Hockey Injuries We Treat

Hockey is a fast-paced sport that can put a strain on your body. Here are some common hockey injuries we can help you recover from:

Shoulder strains and rotator cuff injuries

Knee sprains and ACL tears

Groin pulls and tears

Lower back pain

Ankle sprains

Physiotherapy Maple Ridge: Your Path to Recovery

Our personalized physiotherapy treatment plans combine manual therapy techniques, therapeutic exercise programs, and modalities like ultrasound and electrical stimulation to:

Reduce pain and inflammation

Improve range of motion

Strengthen muscles and ligaments

Enhance balance and coordination

Educate you on injury prevention

Beyond the Ice: Physiotherapy for All Your Active Needs

Whether you’re a weekend warrior or a fitness enthusiast, physiotherapy can benefit you. We can help with various conditions, including:

Chronic pain management

Post-surgical rehabilitation

Work-related injuries

Arthritis management

Sports injuries (not just hockey!)

The Golden Connection: Physiotherapy Across Canada

Did you know that Physio Maple Ridge is part of the Golden Maple Physiotherapy network? This network of clinics across Canada shares a commitment to providing exceptional physiotherapy care. So, wherever you are in Canada, you can find a Golden Maple Physiotherapy clinic nearby to help you get back to moving with confidence.

Your Journey to Becoming a Hiking Hero Starts Here

At Physio Maple Ridge, we don’t just treat injuries; we empower you to reach your full potential. We’ll work with you to create a customized treatment plan that gets you back on the ice, hiking trails, or wherever your active lifestyle takes you.

Here’s what makes Physio Maple Ridge different:

Experienced and Certified Physiotherapists with a passion for helping you achieve your goals.

A Commitment to Personalized Care: We take the time to understand your unique needs and develop a treatment plan tailored to you.

State-of-the-Art Facilities: We utilize the latest equipment and techniques to optimize your recovery journey.

Convenient Location: Located in Maple Ridge, BC, making physiotherapy accessible for you.

Part of the Golden Maple Physiotherapy Network: Connected to a national network of clinics providing exceptional care across Canada.

Ready to Take the First Step?

Don’t let pain hold you back from conquering your next adventure. Contact Physio Maple Ridge today for a consultation. Our team will assess your injury, develop a personalized treatment plan, and get you back to moving with confidence.

Together, we’ll turn your hockey injury into a distant memory and help you become the hiking hero you were meant to be!

[kavyaorganicfarm]

Gaultheria Procumbens: Uncovering The Charms Of Wintergreen

Title: Unveiling the Enchantment of Gaultheria Procumbens: Exploring the Wonders of Wintergreen

In the crisp depths of winter, a humble evergreen plant unfurls its delicate leaves, releasing a scent that evokes memories of frosty forests and cozy evenings by the fire. Gaultheria procumbens, commonly known as wintergreen, is a plant that thrives in the cold climates of North America. Beyond its charming appearance, wintergreen holds a trove of medicinal, culinary, and aromatic treasures, making it a fascinating subject of exploration.

A Botanical Gem:

Wintergreen belongs to the Ericaceae family and is native to the eastern regions of North America, including Canada and the United States. This low-growing perennial shrub boasts glossy, oval-shaped leaves that exude a distinct, minty aroma when crushed. Its dainty white flowers bloom in late spring or early summer, eventually giving way to vibrant red berries in the fall.

Medicinal Marvel:

For centuries, indigenous peoples across North America revered wintergreen for its medicinal properties. They brewed teas and tonics from its leaves and berries to alleviate a variety of ailments, including headaches, fevers, and respiratory issues. This traditional wisdom eventually caught the attention of early European settlers, who adopted wintergreen into their own pharmacopeias.

One of wintergreen's most notable components is methyl salicylate, a compound with analgesic and anti-inflammatory properties similar to aspirin. When applied topically, wintergreen oil, extracted from the plant's leaves, can provide relief from muscle aches, arthritis, and rheumatism. However, caution is advised when using concentrated wintergreen oil, as excessive ingestion can lead to toxicity.

Culinary Delight:

Beyond its medicinal applications, wintergreen lends its unique flavor to culinary creations. The leaves can be used fresh or dried to infuse teas, syrups, and desserts with a refreshing mint-like taste. Chefs often incorporate wintergreen into sauces, marinades, and cocktails to add a subtle hint of woodland freshness to their dishes.

The bright red berries of wintergreen, while mildly toxic when consumed in large quantities, can be used sparingly to make jams, jellies, and sauces. Their tart flavor complements sweet and savory recipes alike, offering a delightful twist to traditional culinary fare.

Aromatic Ambiance:

The aromatic allure of wintergreen extends beyond the kitchen, finding its way into perfumes, candles, and aromatherapy blends. The invigorating scent of wintergreen oil is said to uplift the spirits, clear the mind, and promote mental clarity. Whether diffused in the air or added to bath products, wintergreen oil infuses spaces with a sense of tranquility and rejuvenation, reminiscent of a leisurely stroll through a forest glade.

Conservation Concerns:

Despite its cultural and ecological significance, wintergreen faces threats from habitat loss, overharvesting, and climate change. Sustainable harvesting practices and habitat preservation efforts are essential to safeguarding the future of this botanical treasure. Cultivating wintergreen in home gardens and supporting conservation initiatives can help ensure that future generations continue to benefit from its myriad gifts.

Conclusion:

Gaultheria procumbens, the enchanting wintergreen, captivates the senses with its aromatic foliage, medicinal prowess, and culinary versatility. From ancient indigenous remedies to modern culinary delights, this unassuming plant weaves its way through history, leaving a trail of fascination in its wake. As we delve deeper into the wonders of wintergreen, let us cultivate a newfound appreciation for nature's bountiful offerings and strive to protect the delicate ecosystems that sustain them.0

[laresearchette]

Sunday, February 18, 2024 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: AMERICAN IDOL (CTV) 8:00pm THE EQUALIZER (Global) 8:00pm THE SIMPSONS (CHCH/FOX Feed/Check Local Listings) 8:00pm PEOPLE’S CHOICE AWARDS (CTV2) 8:00pm TOURNAMENT OF CHAMPIONS (Food Network Canada) 8:00pm NAKED AND AFRAID (Discovery Canada) 8:00pm UNITED STATES OF SCANDAL WITH JAKE TAPPER (CNN) 9:00pm CSI: VEGAS (Global) 10:00pm LAST WEEK TONIGHT WITH JOHN OLIVER (HBO Canada) 11:00pm

WHAT IS NOT PREMIERING IN CANADA TONIGHT?: WHAT WOULD YOU DO (ABC Feed)

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

NETFLIX CANADA HEREDITARY LITTLE ANGEL (Volume 4) RHYTHM + FLOW ITALY (IT)

CURLING (TSN/TSN3) 10:30am: 2024 Scotties Tournament of Hearts: Pool Play (TSN/TSN5) 3:30pm: 2024 Scotties Tournament of Hearts: Pool Play (TSN/TSN3/TSN4/TSN5) 8:30pm:2024 Scotties Tournament of Hearts: Pool Play

PWHL HOCKEY (SN1) 1:00pm: Minnesota vs. Montreal

NHL HOCKEY (SN) 3:00pm: Rangers vs. Islanders (SN360) 6:00pm: Kings vs. Penguins

NBA BASKETBALL (SN/SN1) 6:00pm: NBA All-Star Tip Off + Game (SN/SN1) 8:00pm: NBA All-Star Game

BOLLYWED (CBC) 7:00pm: When Kuki realizes after an accident that his turban saved his life, it kickstarts a wish to make everyone's dreams come true, including his own.

NORTHERN AIR RESCUE (APTN) 7:00pm: Moving Up the Ranks

PUSH (CBC) 7:30pm: Brian "Muscles" pushes the Wheelie Peeps way out of their comfort zone on an off-the-grid camping trip; Bean's visit comes to an end.

OCEAN WARRIORS: MISSION READY (APTN) 7:30pm: The Quatsino team heads to a remote inlet to check on an Elder whose family is concerned.

ICE ROAD RESCUE (Nat Geo Canada) 8:00pm (SEASON PREMIERE): Thord Paulsen and his colleagues must fight against snow and icy winds as they rescue cars and trucks on Norway's slippery mountain roads.

NORTH SHORE (CTV Drama) 9:00pm (FINALE): The investigation team closes on those responsible; Max and his sister-in-law make decisions regarding their private lives.

HISTORY'S GREATEST MYSTERIES (History Canada) 9:00pm (SEASON PREMIERE): An Aztec king's glittering treasure vanishes into thin air, inspiring a 500-year search that spans continents; one of the greatest warriors of all-time amassed a vast horde believed to be worth more than $3 billion today.

BÖRJE - THE JOURNEY OF A LEGEND (Crave) 9:00pm: The year is 1986, and Börje celebrates his 35th birthday; still on top of his game and despite being approached by other teams, he is staying true and determined to bring home the Stanley Cup with the Maple Leafs.

HIDDEN ASSETS (Super Channel Fuse) 9:00pm: Bibi reveals that Richard orchestrated the bombings as a ploy to get Deputy PM Viktor Maes into power and buy the Antwerp port; using her statement, CTU draw a link to additional operatives, but Bibi has even more shocking intel to share.

THE CURSE OF OAK ISLAND (History Canada) 10:00pm: With the help of science, the Fellowship uncovers an irrefutable connection between the Money Pit and Lot 5.

DR. DEATH: CUTTHROAT CONMAN (Showcase) 10:15pm: The shocking rise and fall of Paolo Macchiarini, the superstar celebrity surgeon exposed as an international con man who left a trail of devastated patients to grapple with a nightmare.

BEING BLACK IN CANADA - LEGACY ECHOES (CBC) 11:30pm: A look into the rich tapestry of multigenerational Black families.

[mywifeleftme]

220: David Rea // Maverick Child

Maverick Child David Rea 1969, Capitol

Consider today’s review a dinner bell for any sickos out there looking to hear every good country-folk-rock record released between like 1968 and 1972, as there’s a decent chance David Rea’s slipped by you. I’ll be clear up top: you don’t need to get to this one till you’ve listened to every record in that window by the Faces, Gordon Lightfoot, the Burrito Brothers, Little Feat, Jerry Jeff Walker, Delaney & Bonnie, the Dead, Gene Clark etc. etc. But if you’re a true perv for a certain sound, you’ll get to the point where you’re bringing the heavy digging machinery to the crates, becoming a real champion of three specific Garland Jeffreys songs or well-actuallying people about the post-Lou Velvets.

So, use your level of excitement about this run-down as a test for your level of contagion: American folkstyle guitarist who learned his craft from the Reverend Gary Davis and spent a good portion of his life in Canada as a sideman for Lightfoot, Ian & Sylvia, Joni Mitchell (who wrote a song about him) and the like. Had something like two weeks as replacement lead singer/guitarist for Fairport Convention. Best friend of Mountain’s Felix Pappalardi and co-wrote their hit “Mississippi Queen.” First, and by all accounts best, solo album flits between soulful country, very sincere folk, nasty corn-pone blues funk, and rockish stuff. Looks like someone shaved an Ewok to make it look like Warren Zevon.

Oof. You’ve got it that bad eh?

Rea is an undistinguished singer, but he has a likable voice and he’s wise enough not to leave himself on too many ledges that his superb guitar playing can’t scaffold him a way down from. Session guys often like to see one of their own make good, and Rea gets plenty of help from the best: Maverick Child’s credits are full of familiar names from the ranks of Music City’s finest, including guys from the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section, Nashville A-Team, virtuoso fiddler Vassar Clemons, and even most of Mountain on the closing cover of “Hellhound on My Trail.” Pappalardi also did his buddy a favour and produced the sessions—we should also be so lucky to get such a finely crafted gift from a friend.

Like a lot of records by sidemen, Maverick Child doesn’t have a super strong identity of its own, sounding like a clearing house for vibes Rea picked up while backing up a variety of artists. It’s all over the place, from the poignant progressive country of the title track to an arrangement of Jimmie Rogers’ “Blue Yodel #9” that sounds like acoustic Deep Purple. There’s even a weird folk story song called “Cannibal Christians” that involves sorcery and ruminations on the nature of pagan souls.

The best way I can describe this record’s finest moments is like this: my girlfriend got a little teary-eyed listening to the title track and exclaimed, “It’s cheating to use those chords like that!” Part of getting deeper and deeper into a particular niche is finding that while at a certain point you’ve heard most of the original ideas that niche contains, those ideas have also impressed themselves so deeply on you that you will eventually become moved just by being reminded of them. Rea takes some well-traveled roads, but he knows the ones that will take you home. Most of the time, he gets you there like a pro, with just enough weird twists to keep you interested. I recommend the trip!

220/365

[pcttrailsidereader]

Seven Summers

I have only cramped up one time in all of my hiking years . . . I'm not sure about Howard. But, we were both humbled on the long climb out of Cajon Pass at just about the same time. After the first exposed climb from Cajon to Swarthout Canyon (home of the San Andreas Fault) you begin the long, endless ascent into the San Gabriels. About half way up nearing the end of the day, we both began cramping. It started with our calf muscles and seemed to progress until it felt that our entire bodies were quivering. We ended up camping about two thirds of the way up the total climb. (We did wake to the most amazing sunrise.)

I could sympathize with Glenn's agony in this excerpt from Bob Welch's delightful book about the PCT. See my review of the book (July 23, 2023 post -- https://pcttrailsidereader.com/post/723701985617018880/seven-summers-by-bob-welch). Well, the book is available now and well worth the read.

This excerpt gives you a good sense of the book and Bob Welch's gift for telling a good story well. RH

BY SPRING 2021, COVID having abated and vaccines now in use, Glenn and I finalized plans for what we had hoped to hike in 2020, with one exception. Because of the virus, Canada was not allowing hikers through at Manning Park, so once we reached the border we would have to backtrack thirty-one miles to exit the PCT east at Harts Pass in Washington.

We would do that in August as our grand finale. For now, our bigger concern was the hot, dry desert stretch northeast of LA, starting in June: Cajon Pass to Crabtree Meadow, with a side trip up Mount Whitney.

“Some hikers consider (the climb out of Cajon) the most arduous in southern California,” said The Pacific Crest Trail.

I asked Geoff for advice. He wrote:

Leave Cajon Pass as early as possible; don’t plan on any water until Wrightwood. Whatever you do, do not take the Acorn Trail down to Wrightwood. Be very careful about water planning from Tehachapi to Walker Pass. Don’t plan on water at Joshua Tree Springs. It’s radioactive. The first crossing at Spanish Needle Creek will be dry (milepost 669). Second crossing will be dry (669.5). But walk up the drainage forty to sixty yards and you will find a leaf spout. Do not plan on water caches being stocked. I carried six to seven liters at times.

“This sounds every bit as tough as the books make it sound,” I told him.

“It’s beautiful country,” said Geoff. “I liked the desert. But it’s brutal. Hot. Steep. Sandy. And hardly any water.”

Rob Widmer, who I’d met in 2011 when he and his wife, Barbara, turned around rather than face Devils Peak, had hiked this stretch.[1] “Watch out for the wind on Tehachapi Pass,” he wrote. “One night I couldn’t even get my tent secured in the ground.”

To better understand this segment, I contacted a hiker-friendly guy in Wrightwood, Luis “Lou” Mena, whose email address I’d found on the PCT’s Facebook page. He was invaluable in helping us understand what we were up against in this desert environment—a lot.

Ideally, we would have left earlier in the less-hot time of early spring, but I could not. I had a new book, Saving My Enemy, coming out April 27 and my publisher wanted me to commit to six weeks of radio interviews. Thus, Glenn and I had agreed on a June 14 departure, six weeks later than we’d originally planned.

I don’t know about Glenn, but, in retrospect, I was whistling in the dark. Not only were we starting late in the year, but in what history would remember as the hottest June in U.S. history. The entire West Coast was sizzling. “The event is unprecedented in its timing, intensity and scope,” said Washington State University climate scientist Deepti Singh.

At 1 P.M. June 14, 2021, with the temperature already ninety, Glenn and I made what would prove to be a critical mistake: instead of waiting for the relative cool of morning, we hit the trail at Cajon Pass for an afternoon climb that would take us from 3,000 to 8,250 feet in two days. We chose not to wait until the next morning to start because an afternoon leg would put us ahead of schedule and lessen the chances that we’d have to scramble at the end to make our pickup time. To be blunt, we were shortsighted.

Under the freeway and into the low scrub we hiked. The eight-lane Interstate 15 and heavy winds made me feel as if I were hiking into a giant blow dryer set on high: hot and noisy.

“Do not leave Cajon Pass without enough water to climb 5,000 feet and walk 22 miles,” Berger and Smith warned in their book. We took them seriously. Even though our phone apps suggested there was water available at a cache five miles up the desert trail, we didn’t assume that was a sure thing. In Oregon and Washington, we rarely took more than two liters of water on a stretch; on this day, we each took six—twelve pounds’ worth in each pack.

From the get-go, something seemed off with Glenn. On breaks, he’d curl up in the shade of the chaparral and go to sleep. He complained of the heat—not his nature. His disposition, I started to realize, mirrored that of opening day 2015, six years before, when our brother-in-law Greg had died while Glenn and I were hiking north from the Columbia River.

Then again, trail history had taught me that a good night’s sleep could do wonders to rejuvenate tired bodies. On many occasions, I could remember falling asleep while thinking I couldn’t walk another step—and hiking twenty-plus miles the next day. I was hoping that would be the case here.

Amid a sea of desert scrub, we ate, Glenn only sparingly. The warning signs were there, but I rationalized that he just needed rest; we’d been up since 3 A.M. to catch our flight from Portland. At 6 P.M Glenn hit the sack. On a wooden chair near the water cache, I sat in my boxers, popped open an umbrella for shade, and read a book. I was just about to turn in when I saw something unfamiliar in my pack—a small note of encouragement from Sally that melted my heart.

It was far more comforting thinking about her than about how we’d pitched our tents directly above the 700-mile-long San Andreas Fault, catalyst for a number of major earthquakes. Alas, our trip’s forthcoming tremor would not be rooted miles below the earth, but in the heat above.

“Hot but healthy,” I wrote in a wishful-thinking satellite message to Sally and Ann before turning in.

I then messaged Geoff, who, when he saw the pushpin of our location on the online map I sent him would know exactly where we were and what we were facing. “Camping near Swarthout Road,” I wrote. “90 degrees. Haven’t seen another hiker. Will wake at 2 A.M. and night-hike.”

“Well done,” he wrote back. “Good plan for tomorrow. Sleep well.”

COME MORNING, exactly what I hoped would happen did. Glenn rebooted. We climbed high out of Lone Pine/Swartout Canyon with good bounce to our steps. The sky transitioned from dark to light blue, tinted with the slightest swath of pink. I reveled in not being part of the thick I-15 traffic we could see heading to and from Las Vegas and marveled at how the locomotives rolling through Cajon Pass looked as if part of a miniature train setup.

Then, boom: In the time it took the toe of my left shoe to ram a shark-fin rock, I was flat on my face to the accompaniment of a loud “Aaaaarggggghhh!”

“Bobby, you OK?” Glenn asked.

I got to my knees, then to my feet. “Yeah, only hurt my pride.” My falling, it seemed, was beginning to be a thing.

On the PCT, I’d come to realize, you could hurt yourself in myriad ways: slipping, tripping, bushwhacking, crossing creeks, climbing rocks, getting blisters, getting stung, getting sunburned, getting water, descending loose-gravel trails, burning yourself on stoves, you name it. One hiker told me he strained his knee while crouching over a cat hole. In 2019, on Washington’s Stevens Pass, a German hiker died after being hit by a falling tree.

It was a game, really, of beating the odds. And so we pressed on, hoping to do just that. With seven uphill miles under our belts—the only kind available here—we lunched late morning beneath the shade of a rare stretch of pines. All was good. The vegetation had shifted from chaparral to evergreens; the occasional shade lifted our spirits. As we continued up, however, I noticed Glenn once again laboring. His usual upbeat nature waned. Never chatty, he grew eerily quiet.

About noon, without a word, he tossed his pack aside, laid down in the middle of the trail, rolled to his back, and fell asleep.

“Glenny?” I asked, repeating his question to me earlier. “You OK?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Drink some water. How are you really?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not fine. Quit playing John Wayne.”

Cognitively, he seemed to be slipping; how much, I wasn’t sure. Seemingly in slow motion, he rolled over, sat up, and pulled out his water bottle and took a few swigs.

“Take some more,” I said.

He took a few gulps. His long-sleeved shirt—don’t get me going about how he insisted on long, dark sleeves and long, dark pants, even on hot days like this—was saturated with sweat, his skin pale. With his gray brimmed hat flipped up in front, he looked like an 1849 miner, older than the sixty-eight he was.

“You OK to go?”

He nodded. We had come about ten miles and had ten to reach that night’s destination: Blue Ridge Campground. The plan was to get water in seven miles at a place high above the town of Wrightwood called Guffy Campground, which Glenn had earlier told me “wasn’t a sure deal.” By now, I’d learned that just because something said “campground” didn’t mean you should expect flush toilets, running water, or even campers; sometimes it meant a few beat-up picnic tables and a creek that ran dry months ago.

I looked at my iPhone map. If we struck out at Guffy, it would be another five miles to State Route 2 (Angeles Crest Scenic Byway), where we could hitch a ride down to Wrightwood.

We headed on, me ahead, glancing back now and then to make sure Glenn was still coming. About an hour after we’d resumed hiking—about 2 P.M.—I heard it: “Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

I turned. Glenn was flailing on the trail. Rattlesnake? Bee? I shed my pack. “What is it? What?”

“Cramp! Oh, ah! My leg. Killing me! Ah! Ah! Ah!”

He wriggled in pain.

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. Just … gotta —Ah! Ah! Ah!—work it out.”

“Glenn, you’re the doctor here. What do you need? How can I help you?”

He looked dazed. Here but not here. Barely talking.

“Gotta sleep.”

It was about 1 P.M. I looked around. We hadn’t seen another hiker since we’d left Cajon Pass the previous day. The PCT herd was hundreds of miles ahead, and stragglers, obviously, weren’t braving this heat.

The situation suddenly crystallized for me: Glenn needed to get down to Wrightwood. And the only one who could get him there was me. I felt the unease of responsibility twisted with a twinge of terror.

Heavenly Father … .

I pulled out my iPhone and looked at the map. We were heading west-northwest at about 6,500 feet, just beyond Gobblers Knob. We’d need to climb another 1,700 feet up Wright Mountain just to get to a side trail that zigzagged down the height of two Empire State Buildings—2,312 feet—to the little ski community where Lou lived. The drop came in only 2.1 miles, its 1,101-feet-per-mile slope more than thirty percent steeper than the diabolic southbound escape out of the canyon at Belden, which was perhaps the steepest continual stretch on the PCT.

When I saw, on the map, the name of the connecting trail between the PCT and the town, I mentally gulped: Acorn Trail.

Wasn’t that the trail Geoff warned me not to take? How could this be? How could the very trail we needed—our lifeline to water, rest, and perhaps medical attention—be the only trail Geoff had explicitly told me to avoid? Dang. Why hadn’t I asked why we shouldn’t take it? I needed to talk to Geoff.

“Glenny, I’m gonna walk down the trail and see if I can get some cell coverage. Be right back, OK?”

He nodded. He was on his back, in a sliver of shade, trying to sleep. I walked 100 feet forward. Nothing. Finally, I found two bars, enough to make a call. But Geoff wasn’t answering. It was a Tuesday; he was likely cutting hair at the barber shop, which was only five minutes from our house.

I called Sally. “Glenn’s showing signs of heat exhaustion and I need to get him to this town, but the trail to get there is one Geoff warned me not to take. I need to know why. His line is busy. Could you zip over to the shop and have Geoff call me?”

“I would but I’m in Albany with Mom and Dad.”

“No worries. I’ll figure this out. Meanwhile, please pray. And, hey, don’t tell Ann yet, OK?”

“Got it.”

I returned to Glenn.

“Feel like moving on, soldier?”

“Little more sleep.”

I grabbed my inReach satellite device from its front-shoulder strap and messaged Geoff. But with all these trees could I even get a satellite connection?

We are at MP 360. Guffy 364. Iffy water. Glenn seriously dragging. Heat exhaust? … Acorn a bailout? What’s trail like?

When the device warbled, meaning the message had gotten through, I sighed in relief. He wrote back immediately.

Pretty steep for a mile or so. Then a mellow decent through neighborhood. I don’t like “iffy” when it comes to water. I’d take the Acorn Trail.

Geoff’s “go” signal for Acorn eased my fears, confirmed my instincts, and, frankly, made me feel not so alone in all this; I would ask him later about why he’d been so adamant that I avoid the trail. For now, I needed to get Glenn moving. I did so—for a mile. Then he wanted another break. I took the opportunity to call Wrightwood Lou, who was camp-hosting seventy-five miles away at Big Bear Lake.

“Hey, Bob, how you guys doing?”

“Been better. We’re above Wrightwood, and Glenny’s shutting down. I’m taking him down the Acorn Trail. Is it dangerous? Washouts? What?”

“No, Acorn’s a good trail and not dangerous if you’re watching what you’re doing,” said the Marine and former police officer. “It’s just steeper than holy hell. PCTers come down in the afternoon, party that night, then head back up in the morning facing a daunting 2,500-foot climb. Bad idea, really bad idea.”

“Got it. Good to know. Then that’s my plan—Acorn to Wrightwood.”

“So, Bob, to confirm: you’re not asking for search and rescue, right?”

“Copy that. No search and rescue needed for now.”

“OK, call if I can help more. Headin’ back to Wrightwood in the morning. Keep in touch.”

I updated Sally, then returned to Glenn, who was still asleep.

“Hey, wake up, Crab Net.”

One eye opened, then the other.

“We’re taking the Acorn Trail to Wrightwood. It’s just over two miles to the cutoff”—it was actually three but I lied to keep him hopeful—“then another two miles down.” I didn’t mention another mile from there to the motel, in a town so small (pop. 4,500) it didn’t offer Uber service. “We’ll get a motel, water, food, and medical attention if you need it. Sound good?”

He nodded a tepid yes.

I helped him on with his pack, then called the Canyon Creek Inn, a hole-in the-wall motel Geoff recommended, and reserved a room. We started up again, reaching the Acorn Trail Junction at 2:45 P.M. The trip down was like a mini-Fuller Ridge experience. Because the slope of Wright Mountain was almost straight down, I felt as if I could reach out and touch the peaked roofs of the houses below. But it seemed to take forever, partly because of the two dozen switchbacks and partly because Glenn required rest breaks.

We checked in to the Canyon Creek Inn just before 5 P.M., the last mile across town seeming like five.

“Drink, drink, drink,” I said to Glenn in our room. “Then take a cold shower. I’m heading to the store. Whataya need?”

“Chocolate … milk … and … V-8,” he rasped, his voice like that of an old man’s.

“Seriously? Not Gatorade? Electrolyte drinks? Fruit? Salty stuff?”

“Nope.”

At the store, I asked if Wrightwood had an Urgent Care.

“Sorry,” said the young man working the register. “You’d have to go into Lancaster for that.”

“Which is how far?”

“An hour—forty-five minutes without cops.”

When I returned, Glenn assured me he didn’t need medical attention. He phoned Ann and told her what was going on. He was moving like Tim Conway, the shuffling old man in the old “Carol Burnett” TV show. As I pulled the garbage out of my pack to throw away, Glenn crawled into one of the two double beds.

“Bobby,” he said, his voice weak, “I don’t know where ... we go from here.”

“I do: Mile High Pizza. Pepperoni OK?”

“Sure. But I’m just so tired ... I’m afraid if I get back on the trail ... the same thing’s gonna happen ... as happened today.” He coughed. His voice was weak. “I thought I was in better shape.”

I knew he’d done his prep work. He’d been hiking a 1,500-foot hill west of Corvallis and hitting the treadmill whenever he could, sometimes twice a day, up to two hours at a time.

“This isn’t about you being out of shape, Glenn, this is about both of us being stupid. We got greedy, trying to get an extra half-day of hiking when we should have stayed in a motel and left early this morning. Glenny, we hiked 6,500 feet straight up in ninety-degree weather with a hot wind in our face. We’re veterans and we made a stupid rookie mistake.

“Actually, we made another mistake: coming so late in the year. And that’s a hundred percent on me. It was my book promo stuff that forced us to leave six weeks later than we originally planned, when it would have been cooler.”

Glenn never was one to guilt me, even when the opportunity availed itself, and he didn’t now.

“I have no confidence,” he said. “I’m wondering ... if I can even go on.”

“You mean, you think we should call it quits?” I asked. “Like go home?”

“Bobby, I can only speak for myself,” he said. “I’m not sure that a night, or even two nights, here is going to recharge me.”

Until now, I’d looked upon the Wrightwood detour as little more than a tire change during the Indianapolis 500. I now realized how this experience had not only weakened Glenn physically but shaken him mentally. Beyond our 2015 debacle when we quit after two days, since commiting to hike the entire PCT I had never doubted that we would reach Canada. Now, for the first time, I did.

“Well, we don’t have to decide right now,” I said. “I’m going to go grab our pizza. Let’s talk when I get back.”

By the time I’d ordered, walked a few blocks to get fresh fruit at a grocery store, and returned for the pizza, I’d processed everything with fast-forward speed. I felt guilty about my conclusion: I wanted to go on, even if it meant doing so alone. I knew how to follow maps, how to find water, how to rely on others when necessary. I could do this—couldn’t I?

From the beginning, we’d agreed that the guy who didn’t quit should feel free to continue; that’s what I’d done the first year, at Glenn’s insistence, after his vertigo attack. But would that be fair to Glenn?

My thinking sloshed back and forth like an angry sea. In favor of me going it alone: Precedent. When vertigo had slammed Glenn in 2011, he’d encouraged me to finish alone. And we weren’t getting any younger; every year we postponed would make the next year’s miles all the harder. Against me going: If I went alone and Glenn decided to get back on the trail to catch up, we’d be out of synchronization. And what about 2014, when I’d sprained my ankle in the High Sierra and Glenn had said, You quit, I quit?

If only I could be so selfless. I called Sally. Updated her. Asked her if she was good with me going on alone. “If you think it’s safe and you think it’s the right thing to do, I trust you,” she said.

Back at the room, over pizza that Glenn barely touched, I floated my idea to him with the subliminal hope that he would discourage me from going ahead, which would make my decision easy. I wouldn’t press on without his blessing. He talked about the heat, having to hike at night, the challenge of finding water, and the lack of other people on the trail to, say, help find water, but his bottom line was: if I needed to go on, I should feel free to do so.

“Maybe … I could rent a car … and help resupply you,” he said.

His generosity moved me, but that idea wasn’t practical. The trail rarely crossed a road. And, meanwhile, Glenny would be baking in a car with nothing to do. How fun would that be?

We fell asleep having no definite plan about where we were going from here. But, inside, I knew what I wanted to do: hike on.

AT 4 A.M. I awoke in a sweat as if the idea of going on alone had been a horrible nightmare. What was I thinking? How crazy could I be? Going it alone was a recipe for disaster—and a lesson in how easily our emotions can become the tail wagging the dog of common sense.

“Glenn,” I said in the morning. “I rethought this. I’m not going on by myself. It’d be the stupidest thing I’ve done since, well, two days ago, leaving in ninety-degree heat.”

“If that’s what you want, but don’t not go on my account.”

“Hey, I appreciate that, but I’ve thought it over. I’m good with heading home. And if Sally knew the full context of hiking alone in this heat, she wouldn’t want me out there either.”

Quiet. Then, outside, a dog barked. Far away, a leaf blower cranked up.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Glenn said, his voice suddenly re-energized. “Look, we both have ten more days off. What if we fly home, rest up for a few days, repack, then drive back down to Lone Pine?”

His mind had obviously been at work since he’d awakened.

“And?”

“And in the relative cool of the high mountains, get the Kennedy-Meadows-to-Crabtree-Meadow stretch done, then summit Whitney again, exit at Whitney Portal, and grab a ride back to Lone Pine. Get in some trail we need to get done, but without this blazing heat.”

“Do you really think we’d have time for all that in ten days?” I asked.

“I do.”

“And you think you’re up for it?”

“I do. It’s this heat that got me but the mountains will be cooler.”

“Then let’s do it,” I said. “We can take my truck.”

My spirits soared. The Oregon Boys would live to hike another day.

[1] Rob and his brother Kurt, both Oregon State University graduates like Glenn, were, in 1984, founders of what became the regionally famous Widmer Brothers Brewery in Portland.