Summer seems to be coming to an end.  Now, typically this would lead to great frustration as it's only September...and there's already snow on the mountains, but this time around...my frustration is overpowered by excitement.

It seems as though every year the seasons get cut short due to bad weather.  Summer turns into winter too fast, winter is too short because the snow melts too early.  There doesn't seem to be any consistency anymore.  You can't rely on the weather station as it seems to change every half hour, and of course, everyone has their theory to why "this season is going to be the best...", yet every time, every season plays out its own fate.

The summer temps here in the mountains have been replaced with crisp air, to the point where you can see your own breath in the morning.  Usually this time of year shows up around October...but it's September...early september.  We've had so much rain in the past couple months that we've barely been able to enjoy three days in a row of sunshine.  For a split second this started to bug me...a lot.  But faster then i had expected, my attitude re-focused itself on a more positive note: The upcoming ice and mixed climbing season was closer then i thought.

When my wife and I do the laundary, all the clothes get folded and put away (well, i usually just "lay mine in a neat pile" and pick from there over the course of the week) leaving the socks in a big pile.  For the first time, a couple of days ago, i stared at my socks and found myself grinning.  At that moment I realized that my socks represented something more then just threads woven together–they represented what was coming.  They forshadowed the early mornings– the alpine starts if you will, the long days in the mountains, being 200ft off the ground on a scarey dagger of ice, or even the relaxing feeling of pulling off my shoes on an airplane.  It was as if my socks were telling me a story–one filled with many exhillerating adventures. 

As i matched the socks together shivers were rolling through my spine.  I knew that when these socks were on my feet, I'd be pushing my limits somewhere.  This time, knowing what season was approaching...I didn't just huck my socks back in the sock bin...I kept them out...and sort of just...held them.  Weird, I know...but it was like getting your first new mountain bike.  When you held your new bike for the first time you began to dream of all the "cool" things you would do on it.  My socks played the same role.  Not only did each individual sock have it's own memory bank of adventures to tell, but with still so much life left in them, there was tons of room remaining for many more adventures to come.  That made me smile, and that's what replaced my dismay in dealing with the terrible weather we've had.

The winter is coming...and fast.  Snow is already creeping down the mountains.  But my focus has changed this time around, it's been transformed willingly and with no fight.  As I stare at my socks with the big "W" on them I smile, and even start laughing a little...because I know that in no time–with my socks guiding me, I'll be living out adventureous moments of adrenaline-pumping excitement.

I love climbing when i can see my breath with every gasp, and I love my socks that store memories that last a lifetime.

What stories do your wigwam socks have to tell?