I consummated my lust for Mt. Jefferson today, doin’ the dirty with yet another one of New Hampshire’s 48, 4,000 footers. (That’s number 47 for me, but who’s counting…besides me?) I know what you’re asking, “O, Aging Seeker of Mountain Summits, why, pray tell, dost thou hikest so much?”
Good question, Grasshopper, though I recommend you drop the King James English–it makes you sound pretentious.
Why do I hike these mountains, you ax? See for yourself. Once you feel the power and grace of a mountain summit that you earned by your own sweat and toil, you’re hopelessly hooked–from that moment on you are reborn as a shameless mountain ho. So, when I’m not tinkering with this website or fixing broken stuff, I’m either laying on the couch drinking Bud n’ watching Gilligan or I’m whoring myself out to another summit in the White Mountains.
I’ve been saving Mt. Isolation for last. After that, I’ll have hiked all 48, 4,000-footers. And then I can die. No, wait, then I have to hike them all in winter. Then, I have to hike them all at night. Then, I have to hike them all blindfolded and barefooted. And then, I have to …
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