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Back to the Mountain

That’s how I felt, at 10 p.m. on a Sunday night, in a town that you may never visit—with my stethoscope around my neck, gloves on my hands, and ski boots on my feet. 

Lifetimes: The Gifts My Father Gives

Then there’s hunting, and the days that dad would pull us out of school for a “family emergency” so that we could chase after dogs who chased after pheasants and then watch as their iridescent feathers caught the autumn sun.


I used to finish races like that so sweaty and happy and exhilarated that I didn’t need any rum to feel like the queen of the world.

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