OCR Text |
Show GIVING UP Hunt picked his way along the trail. It rose abruptly, then evened: a familiar rhythm. Hunt had climbed with some frequency in the Spring and Summer. Sometimes, it was with his friend; sometimes, alone. Today, though the air was not really unfriendly, quiet snow swirled. And Hunt was by himself. That was Truth, too. He felt flakes gently scratch his face -- like the cat sometimes, crossing #» his and Leah's bed, deep in the night. And the wind blew sustained notes in different pitches through the lean, naked aspen and scrub oak. No one else, climbing or descending, shared the trail. Not enough snow for the cross-country skiers to have started. And all the seasonal hikers had given up. Given up. Giving up. The words fell into a kind of rhythm with Hunt's stride. It was the curious movement of his life now: giving up . . . giving ^p_ . . . as much as he could. Cutting down. Paring away. Trimming off. For too long . . . for too long, Hunt had been an excessive person. Leah loved him. He knew that. But she had said, frankly: "Hunt, sometimes you're very difficult. To live with. You're unrestrained." And his friend, who curiously enough was not a swimmer, had said: "Swim by yourself. I need to breathe. You want more than you can have." And someone else, sensing Hunt's ear for instruction, had recently warned: "You make people nervous. People |