Year: 2012

My birthday is the 3rd, on a Tuesday. I am planning on working remotely so that I can be home to accept a package. So yeah, all my hubbub about giving up photography is all smoke and mirrors. I have decided upon the Sony Nex-5 – http://store.sony.com/p/Black-Alpha-Digital-Camera-Body-NEX-Interchangeable-Lens-Digital-Camera-Body-18-55mm-Zoom-Lens/en/p/NEX5NK/B -. It’s cheap compared to DSLRs, and the best part is that they finally make a small packable camera that has a big sensor.

So my big question is what the hell are the mirrors for anyway…just for the viewfinder. No matter, who cares about the details. I don’t need no sticking mirror.

This little bugger is like #5 in DPReview’s list – http://www.dpreview.com/camerareviews/?category=cameras&order=rating – and Gold Award. Only cameras like the Canon EOS-1D Mark IV – http://www.dpreview.com/reviews/canoneos1dmarkIV/ – or the Nikon D3S – http://www.dpreview.com/reviews/nikond3s/ – make that level. All in a compact body. And its big brother, the Sony Alpha NEX-7 – http://www.dpreview.com/reviews/sonynex7/ – is #4, although $1,400.00. This little beast… $700.00. Yeah… sold.

My usual research sites:

• Digital Preview (my fav) http://www.dpreview.com/reviews/sonynex5n
• Camera Labs http://www.cameralabs.com/reviews/Sony_Alpha_NEX_5N/
• Imaging Resources http://www.imaging-resource.com/PRODS/NEX5N/NEX5NA.HTM

Yeah, I know. I have always been a Canon man. But times have changed. The new big sensor mirrorless compacts are looking decent. Gotta try one.

2 workouts today. Yes, I am back into that training phase that has be going out for a double training ride separated by 4 hours of recovery.  I really pulled it off today too. The last time I was doing these I had a job here in Missoula that was so stressful I never had a chance for recovery. Now with my new job at MSU I can work 7 to 3 and get in long recovery rides which allows me to do the important two a day training on the weekends.  With full rest between them they didn’t hurt so bad. I even found myself able to think on my rides. Yea … go figure. What did I think about?  Well the camera situation.  And how much quality time i now have. This give up photography thing is really working. 

Now I am on a roll and looking to cut other frivolous projects.  I would love to widdle (how do you spell widdle) it all down to just biking and eating. Biking and eating … starting to sound like the Tour Divide isn’t it. What’s next? Blogging and online presence?

Here I am, somewhere in Montana, settling into my role at Montana State University. The vibe’s different from last week’s remote work hustle – now, I’m aiming for a blend of productivity and personal time. And, against all odds, I’m knocking tasks out of the park. Just stepped outside for a ride, despite the downpour. Bozeman? Missoula? The lines are a bit blurry in the rain.

Reaching the ridge, I was struck by a stunning scene – a fiery sky like none other, above what I think was the Gallatin Valley. Caught between awe and the instinct to bolt before the storm hit, I stood frozen, watching this mesmerizing dance of red and dark clouds. The moment was fleeting, soon replaced by snowflakes.

Home at last, after what felt like an age, my hands too numb to even open the door. A hot shower brought me back to life after my mini odyssey.

What a ride! Started on the M Trail, venturing through the Bridger Foothills into a landscape that shifted from dry paths to waist-deep snow. Every turn brought more beauty, and oh, if only I’d remembered my camera. The mix-up of Bozeman and Missoula? Just part of today’s whirlwind adventure.

I went to take a photo of a scene during a recent ride and discovered that my camera was not working. I carry a small pocket camera that takes great photos. I also have a DSLR, but it is so big I never take it anywhere. So now I need a new camera. I have found one, and it is $700. I am ready to pull the trigger. Then I pause… why do I want to take photos so badly… and most importantly, why do I have to have a quality camera?

I am backing out of the purchase, at least for now. I think I will go on a journey to see why I have let cameras dominate my life. They cost money, and dealing with the results is VERY time-consuming. In one ride, I can take 300 photos, and then it takes me 4 hours to sort them and find the ones I like. Then I like to process them and share them in blogs and online. I waste so much time on something that is not my job. It makes me no money. Why do I do it? Do I use it to hide from other things? Is it an expensive distraction? Am I hiding behind a lens?

So I am thinking about not taking another photo for one year. This way, my photography fast will uncover my true desires and passions. I will understand more why I do it as I withdraw from it. If in a year I still want to do it and can rationalize why, I will pick it up again. This will either make or break my blogging. I mean, I am not a good writer, so I don’t know if I can pull off blogging without visual aid. But then again, this blog’s purpose is therapeutic for me, like this one, helping me to try and understand my passions.

It is early, and already the sun is hitting upon me so hard I think that it is summer. I decided to take off my coat and all winter-specific gear to stay cool during the next 3 minutes. My first set of intervals was up the US West Trail, and they went quite well. The usual uncomfortable suffer feelings followed by a little rest to dream of a world where that was the last time I would feel that way. Then, without hesitation, I would do another, much to the total opposition from my body and mind. I hate the uncomfortable feeling of going anaerobic.

As I approached the end of my ride, I crested Jumbo Saddle. My grin was as wide as the horizon. I just had to suffer through the hard times to enjoy this moment.

There are times I really don’t want to do something, like go see a friend’s show. I mean, I am not into Brazilian dance, right? But after going, I found another appreciation for other ways of doing things. Later, as I drove back home, I had a grin as large as the setting sun on the horizon.

This weekend, I missed a big race I was looking forward to, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Just have to get through these hard times and look forward to next year.

Could be I’m a tad on the grouchy side today. There’s a fair chance of that, seeing as how during my entire ride, I found myself pining for the solo race I’d ambitiously penciled into my weekend plans. On paper, today seemed ripe for a bike adventure. That’s what I told myself as I bid farewell to Lincoln Hills, setting my sights on conquering the Rattlesnake. And for a while, it was all sunshine and rainbows, or so I thought. Even as I pedaled through mud and slush, optimism had me believe I could emerge from this challenge with both my dignity and bike intact. However, as I ventured further into what I’ve now dubbed “the trail of mandatory single-track sorrows,” it dawned on me that I was in for a soaking of epic proportions, with my bike likely to suffer a fate akin to a battle-worn chariot. I managed to dodge the grim reaper on what felt like a slushy slope designed for ice skating rather than biking, but by the time I was homeward bound, the day’s ride had officially plummeted from “adventure” to “misadventure.”

Missoula, in its whimsical way, seems to have a talent for humbling the human spirit. Today’s escapade put more wear on my bike than six months of daily rides in Bozeman could ever dream of. Such is life around these parts, it seems. Today felt akin to bouncing back from an injury – moments of deceptive progress suddenly undercut by petty setbacks, grounding you once more. Yet, deep down, there’s that flicker of hope that enduring these trials will somehow steer you back to a sweeter slice of life. Or at least, to what one imagines that sweet slice to be.

So, it’s been another one of those cold, wet days that make you wonder if the sun’s taken a personal day off. This morning, I poked my head out, thinking maybe I’d find some greens to munch on. My spot, just a stone’s throw east of Carriage Way in Missoula, Montana, is something out of a storybook. I’ve got this quaint little porch pad that gives me a front-row seat to the world through a massive window. There’s something almost magical about lounging in the tall grass come evening, watching a couple get lost in the latest SOA episode on their laptop. Ah, to live a day in my yard.

Oh, by the way, the name’s Peter. And before you even go there, no, I’ve got zero ties to that celebrity bunny with a penchant for trouble. My days? Well, they’re dedicated to guarding the Templar Tu Yer, a sacred temple that’s pretty much my life. And it’s not just any life—it’s a fantastic one in this yard.

To keep the temple looking sharp, I’ve enlisted a dynamic duo: Chad and Hank, the chipmunk brothers. Around these parts, chipmunks aren’t just your garden variety—they’re bona fide munks. Chad’s the one who makes sure our grounds could grace the cover of “Better Homes & Gardens,” while Hank… well, let’s just say he’s not your average chipmunk. Tipping the scales at 200 pounds, he’s the best friend you could ask for—unless you’re a black bear looking for trouble. Last year, I witnessed him give one such unwelcome visitor a lesson in humility. Thanks to him, our yard remains a peaceful haven.

Truly, life is a gem here, surrounded by our precious temples and tall grass, with the bonus of having human dramas unfold right before our eyes through the big window. I’m already wondering what tonight’s show will be.

Shifting gears to a different slice of my life, it was like deja vu all over again today. Our rendezvous was classic—same place, same “hey, how’s it going?” followed by the grueling trek up the “gut” of the trail. Nothing had changed. Or so it seemed.

Perched between Sentinel and University Mountain, the air buzzed with the collective excitement of my crew. The onset of a new season of Thursday Night Rides was like a balm, almost as if we’d time-traveled back to the good ol’ days. Being reunited with everyone was a gentle reminder of how sweet life can be, echoing the same sentiment I cherish daily in my own backyard. Here’s to more such moments, both in the wild and the comfort of home.

Returning to Missoula can sometimes feel like walking into a grayscale photograph. Today, the outside world seemed to wear a cloak of grey so dense, I half expected it to weigh me down if I dared to step out. It looked downright unwelcoming, a far cry from an invitation for any sort of activity. Yet, after a bit of internal wrestling, I managed to break free from the grip of my cozy indoors.

By the time I got out, the clock had already laughed at my initial plans. I had dreamed of spending over five hours biking, but this tardy departure turned my grand plans into a mere nudge to get at least some air and movement. A “quick and dirty,” if you will. Just something to shake the cobwebs loose and take a few deep breaths amidst the whirlwind of thoughts from the past few days.

My Muckluk and I ventured into the Rattlesnake area, hopeful for a slice of better conditions. Instead, our journey was a dance through mud and slush, painting us with the day’s palette. Familiar trails rolled under my wheels – Mandatory single track, Turkey Trail, Shampoo, Spring Gulch, and Stewart Peak. Each one a brief visit, a “quick and dirty” endeavor with boots on the ground for about 80% of the journey. But hey, no worries.

Just a quick and dirty… well, more of a slushy adventure, really.

The weird thing about waiting rooms is the TV. The second hour in the waiting room, I was glued to it. Trying to read the captions to try and figure out what the figures on the screen were saying. To make things even more challenging, the volume was up a little, so I could hear sound. But the sound was out of sync with the text…very confusing. In the end, I didn’t actually understand what was happening, but it was something to stare at. My mind was on someone in the operating room, so I don’t think I could have really been “into” what was going on anyway. My mind was drifting, imagining biking aimlessly through a desolate desert.

As the third hour approached, I started doing calculations. We arrived at 6:30, and it was now 9:30. The first hour, we sat and waited for some IV drugs to take effect. There were some tough moments to handle. There is a risk going into surgery, and we were realizing it as one of us was in a gown and the other sitting to the side. I was the onlooker and felt helpless, and I have to say, I don’t like seeing someone I care about getting hooked up to be “jacked out” of consciousness. I mean, as humans, it’s all we have, right? It’s what makes us alive. My mind was drifting… I needed to focus. I imagined biking aimlessly along in that desert. The damn TV was so easy to look at, but I needed to appear as if I was watching it because I was dreaming of being lost in an ever-ending region of desolation. I looked at the clock – 10:30.

Okay, recalculating. Surgery started at 8…so she had been under for about 2.5 hours. I was worried. All the thoughts of a bad anesthesiologist kept creeping into my head. She is so small…what if? The stress was unbearable, so I stood up and walked over to the window. A long walk, as I imagined getting off my bike now and feeling the hot sand beneath my feet. Walking the bike now to an endless horizon.

In the parking lot, a car stood out. A golden Focus wagon with a Salsa Mukluk on the roof. It looked way out of place, as did the fat tire bike on top. Usually, I would think how cool it looked, followed by a urge to go ride it. But instead, I nervously went back to the couch and started glaring at the TV again. I comfortably slipped back into my dream stare, back on my bike and pushing towards the horizon…somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It was now 11:30 and approaching noon.

A nurse came into view and walked past me. I made eye contact to see if I could garner any information. She walked past me and into the arms of another. This must be her boyfriend. I wished I could hold my girlfriend. I then overheard her mention that one ACL surgery was down and one to go. She sighed, and I tried to soak in all the nuances of her expression to try and figure out what had happened in the operating room. I couldn’t bear it any longer, and full panic started to set in. I slipped back into my stare at the TV and was again transported to my desert…and my bike. My phone rang. It was the surgeon.

“She did very well, and it all went okay. We were able to use a piece of her hamstring successfully. We now just have to wait for her to wake up. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Thanks doctor, thanks for everything.”

I found myself at Adventure Cycling around 6 p.m., gearing up for what I dubbed the “Last Walk” – a whimsical pre-surgery send-off for a friend about to brave knee surgery the following day. Originally, we had grand visions of a cinematic evening, complete with pizza, beer, and the obligatory ice cream chaser. But, as fate would have it, every master plan must face its trials. Our movie dreams were dashed, courtesy of my friend’s sluggish ACL-less saunter. But hey, no biggie.

Most of our evening was engulfed in the great debate of where to munch, but eventually, “da Bridge” claimed victory. As we settled into our seats, reminiscing ensued. I was catapulted back to the halcyon days of plotting grand escapades, possibly including a night in a secluded cabin, our smiles frosted with the remnants of clandestine beer runs.

Now, the eve of the surgery stands before us, marking the end of mobility for my compatriot, yet symbolizing so much more. It’s akin to reaching the peak of the week, a peculiar sort of hump day. Tomorrow, the journey of healing commences following the mend of what’s broken. It’s a bittersweet symphony of anticipation and nostalgia, as we brace for what’s ahead.

Facing knee surgery on the horizon, today was all about soaking up the great outdoors—or at least escaping the confines of the house. It’s not my knee on the chopping block, but I’ve volunteered as tribute to be the makeshift “male nurse” for this knee saga. Sounds heroic, doesn’t it? Hence, today was a mixed bag of a training session—part physical hustle, part strategic planning. The agenda? Recycle like eco-warriors, hit the shops like it’s Black Friday, cycle like we’re prepping for the Tour de France, and then, the grand finale, crack open a cold one. Because, let’s be honest, all heroic quests end with a beer.

Staring out my window here in Missoula, I’m hit with a revelation – nada, zilch, nothing’s missing. Yet, it’s exactly what’s absent in front of me that’s the kicker. We’re talking color – not just any hue, but that vibrant Bozeman palette that makes your heart skip a beat. The scene zooms in on a sunset, bursting with all the makings of a snapshot masterpiece. It tugs at the heartstrings, folks, and it’s downright gorgeous. It’s got layers, pulling you in like a magnet.

But snap back to reality (oh, there goes gravity), and it’s a whole different story. Not a single photo-worthy scene in sight. Might as well hit the road, right? Guess it’s time to create my own adventure, maybe find that missing Bozeman rainbow on the way.

I just arrived in Missoula but not before stopping off at one of my favorite dirt venues. This time of year when most of Montana is frozen and covered in ice and snow Pipestone has always been to go to for a dirt fix.  It stays dry mostly because of the way the weather systems come across the continental divide.  In any case there is enough dirt to satisfy any knobby laden cyclist.

This time around I took the Mukluk out for a frolic in the dirt and was surprised to find out that it is pretty fast … downhill.  The uphills take a hit as expected by you cant beat just rolling across harsh terrain with some fat rubber underneath you.  And …. it is comfy.  Like riding a sofa. 

My turn around was near a box canyon where a little moisture seemed to still be present and if you know anything about Pipestone then you don’t want to be anywhere around moisture.  The sticky clay is so robust it will not even wear off your tires. I have had mtb tires that had Pipestone mud for their entire lifetime stuck to the side walls. And if it gets on your bike … goodbye paint.  Thanks god my Mucky is anodized. Kind of like the sport … sticks to ya.

Ugh, me and procrastination, it’s a never-ending love-hate story. Tonight? Small core workout, easy peasy, enough time to pack for Missoula like a boss. Guess what? Nope. Fast forward to me face-planting on the couch, napping harder than a koala after a eucalyptus binge, and Craig Ferguson cackling on repeat on the TV. Whoops.

But hey, sometimes even unplanned naps work their magic. Woke up feeling like a new me, ready to tackle the week with more zen than a meditating panda. Kinda like watching a storm roll into a valley – yeah, it’s gonna be a slog getting out, but if you squint just right (or maybe through a camera lens), it’s kinda beautiful, you know?

So here’s to embracing the unexpected, finding peace in the chaos (and maybe catching up on my packing later ). Missoula, here I come, nap-rejuvenated and ready for whatever adventure awaits, even if it involves navigating my way out of a metaphorical wilderness (or maybe just unpacking a suitcase of wrinkles).

Farewell to Google, on the Ides of March, 2013. And let’s pour one out for http://www.digg.com/reader. May it rest in peace amidst the digital ether.

Tonight’s ride was a profound metaphor for life itself. This Friday, I’ll be hitting the road to support a friend through surgery, marking the start of a challenging six-month recovery for them. The thought of their swift shift from an active lifestyle to enforced stillness is heart-wrenching. I can only imagine the whirlwind of emotions they’re experiencing. Sure, there’s the parallel of rehab to training—both require dedication and hard work, though the former, I suspect, carries a heavier emotional weight.

My ride tonight began as a testament to perseverance. I chose Olsen Creek from a list of snowmobile trails, greeted by muddy conditions that had me questioning the feasibility of my journey. As I progressed, the snow’s embrace reassured me, reminiscent of the initial denial one faces after an injury—clinging to a sliver of hope that things aren’t as dire as they appear.

However, the trail soon mirrored the harsh realities of accepting and adapting to life’s curveballs. My bike faltered, sinking into an unexpectedly deep rut, a clear sign that my journey—and perhaps my denial—needed reevaluation. Unlike my friend, who bravely faced their reality with immediate action, my instinct has always been to shy away from seeking help, preferring to wait out the storm.

The trek became a mixture of riding and trudging, each step a reminder of the setbacks and small victories that define recovery. Despite the challenges, the journey offered stunning views of the Bridger Range, culminating in a thrilling descent—a reminder of the beauty and joy that perseverance can unveil.

My adventure on snowshoes tonight brought back a decade-old memory, highlighting the indispensable value of the right tools in navigating life’s challenges. Snowshoes transformed my journey across the crusted snow of Baldy Mountain, allowing me to traverse with relative ease, though the ridgeline’s rocky outcrops presented their own dangers.

Navigating this rugged terrain, I encountered a harrowing moment—a literal cliffhanger, saved only by the fortuitous snag of my gear. This experience was a stark reminder of the precariousness of our paths and the unexpected twists that can quickly alter our course.

Standing atop Baldy Mountain, amidst howling winds and swirling snow, I reflected on the day’s adventures and the parallel journeys of recovery and exploration. It was a moment of gratitude for the ability to move forward, a celebration of resilience in the face of adversity.

This ride, like life, was a testament to the power of perseverance, the beauty that lies beyond the struggle, and the unwavering hope for a stronger comeback, both for my friend and myself.

Mondays, right? They’re like a whirlwind that picks you up and doesn’t bother putting you down gently. So, today (or should I say yesterday? No, it’s still today) was a marathon. Kicked off the day bidding adieu to someone, prepped for work, raced against time and still clocked in late, danced the nine-to-five scramble, and floated home in a post-work haze. Then, in a classic plot twist, remembered my workout just in time to procrastinate and doze off on the sofa, with Craig Ferguson providing the soundtrack to my unintended nap. Realized my workout guilt, tackled it, checked in with someone, wrapped up the sweat session, and then—boom—crashed into bed like a log, unaware of my own crash landing.

Now, caught in this weird pre-midnight time warp, I’m trying to piece together the day and wrap up my usual routines. Shower? Ha, who’s got time for that? And then, like discovering treasure in my own home, I stumbled upon a box in the hallway. Oh yes, the cavalry has arrived—my Action Wipes, but not just any; the brand spanking new ones with the upgraded formula and multipack glory.

Here’s the scoop—these wipes are rocking a 100% natural, plant-based preservative, making us trailblazers with a fully natural, body wipe multipack. Sure, other wipes might flirt with 97-98% natural claims, but we’re here to win the game. Why the upgrade? Simple, to combat the bacteria baddies that might sneak into the pack, ensuring every wipe remains a hero until the very last one.

Why haven’t others jumped on this bandwagon? Because good intentions come with a price tag—$60 an ounce for the chemical stuff versus $200 an ounce for our natural goodness. But hey, your skin deserves the best, free from synthetic nasties and harsh chemicals.

And let’s not forget the Cananga odorata (Ylang Ylang) oil—my personal scent superhero. It’s exotic, it’s sensual, and it’s the secret behind that “why do I feel so good?” sensation. Added to strike a perfect harmony with the preservative’s citrus vibes, ensuring the new multipack smells just as heavenly as the singles.

So, no shower tonight? No problem. A swift Action Wipe refresh, and I’m feeling minty fresh, ready to dive back into dreamland. Hats off to Martha for this genius solution to end a chaotic Monday.

So there I was, updating my social sphere with, “Almost hitting the pavement. Wouldn’t say no to hitching a ride,” on both Twitter and Facebook. Lo and behold, within the span of a quick coffee break, a Ford Focus rolled up. Behind the wheel? Only the most charming lady you could imagine, greeting me like we were long-lost friends. Sure, I might’ve made it back on my own steam, but let’s be real – when I fired off that update, my knee was throwing a tantrum, and I was bracing myself for what felt like an epic trek back, capped off with a cautious bike ride home. The drama? Courtesy of this morning’s misadventure up on the ridge.

Mission: Baldy Mountain

The day’s agenda was straightforward: pedal from my doorstep to conquer Baldy Mountain. It turned out to be a rollercoaster of emotions. One minute, I’m all gung-ho about summiting, the next, it’s looking grim. The turning point came when optimism was at an all-time low. I hit a peak, gazed over at the Baldy ridgeline, and… yeah, not happening. The only way forward was to wade through neck-deep snow for a good quarter mile to reach the clearer ridge, followed by a lengthy traverse. But, plot twist: I forgot my snowshoes. Classic me. So, I turned tail.

Stony Retreat

Then, as if scripted by Murphy himself, disaster struck. My foot crashed through the snow, burying itself up to the shin, and all my weight shifted forward. The snow crust might as well have been concrete, giving my leg a jolt that screamed “something’s wrong.” Luckily, I managed to clamber up to the ridge and hobble down its stony backbone with all the grace of a newborn deer.

Trek over the North Bridgers to Hylite

The ridge, swept by the wind, spared me from some of the snow, but as I neared my snow bike’s hiding spot, I was breaking through the surface left and right. My knee began to voice its displeasure, and I took a few unscheduled dives. My leg was definitely not on board, shocked and weak, utterly indifferent to the stunning day or the breathtaking view of the Hyalite region, with Baldy taunting me in the background. Nope, my leg was staging a full-on protest, embodying the essence of “angry leg.”

Reflecting on it, that social media shout-out did snag me a lift home, but all things considered, it was a solid day. Guess it’s time to take “angry leg” out for another whirl this arvo – wish us luck!

Okay, confess. Who else’s childhood involved precariously balanced towers of playing cards, mismatched Legos, and anything else vaguely rectangular? Yeah, me too. So, when my inner architect suddenly craved a Jenga showdown, the quest was on. Bozeman, our mountain haven, promised adventure, not just aisles of plastic blocks. My map app scoffed at my “scenic route” suggestion, but hey, who needs traffic lights when you have meadows bathed in sunset?

We weaved through backroads, dodging grazing cows and marveling at the Madison Range blushing pink in the evening glow. Every twist and turn felt like a scene from a Montana postcard, complete with the soundtrack of crickets chirping and tires crunching on gravel. We even spotted a majestic bald eagle soaring overhead, reminding us that nature was playing its own epic game out there.

Finally, after navigating a maze of one-way streets and side-eyeing suspicious squirrels (those little buggers are ruthless Jenga thieves, trust me), we reached the holy grail: Target. Pronounced “tar-gae,” of course, with the kind of fondness reserved for good deals and the promise of finding anything your heart desires (or in this case, desperately needs).

The toy aisle greeted us with a symphony of plastic clatter and flashing lights. But alas, no Jenga. Our tower dreams seemed destined to crumble like stale cookies. Undeterred, we embarked on a guerilla search mission, interrogating employees with the urgency of seasoned detectives. Each “Nope, sorry” felt like a Jenga block tumbling from the stack.

But then, just as despair threatened to swallow us whole, a ray of light! (Okay, maybe it was just the fluorescent aisle lighting.) Nestled on a dusty shelf, amidst an army of squeaky stuffed animals, sat our Jenga hero. Victory! We snatched that box like it was the last life raft on a sinking ship.

Back home, amidst the aroma of campfire stew (okay, maybe slightly burnt, but that’s another story), we built our tower. Each block, a testament to our backroad odyssey. Jenga pieces clattered, laughter echoed, and the night pulsed with the thrill of victory. Turns out, the real treasure wasn’t just the game, but the winding road that led us there, the shared adventure, and the sunset that painted the sky in shades of triumph.

So next time you’re craving a good game night, remember, the best adventures are often found off the beaten path. Embrace the detours, savor the backroads, and who knows, you might just stumble upon your own version of Jenga (pronounced “jen-gah,” but seriously, who says it that way?). And hey, if you find yourself in Bozeman, feel free to join the quest. Just beware of the squirrels. They’re onto us.