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Summit Up

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column still dreaming about the mouse crawling up our leg.

We went on a hut trip this weekend, which, for those who don’t know, is a great way to remind yourself why the mining lifestyle would have gone bust even if the mineral veins hadn’t – you can easily spend all day just keeping the fire going to stay warm, and anybody who would snowshoe six miles (in one day, mind you) in the boreal wind is definitely chasing gold – or has brain poisoning from heavy metals.

So, as you can tell, we had a great time. The best part, however, was the mouse that kept playing mind games on us in the cabin. We’re pretty sure he wanted nothing at all from our food stores, garbage or warm clothes that would have provided good nesting material. No, we’re quite confident he was only scurrying around, climbing up and down the walls and strategically running between our legs because he knew full well we’d end up having dreams about him.

Now, mind you, we’re not afraid of mice. We would have gladly killed the little bugger if it weren’t for the company with us and that phone conversation we had last week with the Dalai Lama (he calls us all the time wanting help with his freestyle hip-hop rhymes – he’s like, “O, one that is Up on Summit, what rhymes with “enlightenment and peace in a Value Meal’?” and we’re like, “beans in Bhutan, and keepin’ it real,” Buddha).

So we let Mickey live. Then, sure enough, we dream he’s crawling up our leg, which causes us to leap from the bed, shouting obscenities, smacking at our calves and waking up the other hut occupants. If you can imagine, it’s kind of like dreaming you’re smoking a cigarette and, in the dream, you drop it in your lap – any sane person would wake up playing hot potato, shaking up the sheets.

We’ll finish today’s rambling ruminations by asking you this question: Which do you think is worse, dreaming about dropping butts on you or dreaming about mice crawling on you?


One last thought of the day from that weekend trek: When returning from the backcountry, you know you’re getting close to the trailhead because the frequency of doggie landmines increases exponentially.


A very upset “person” wrote us a “letter” in response to the “column” we wrote “yesterday”:

I am VERY offended by your Summit Up “column.” The reference to an “Oriental” person is far from politically correct! The term Oriental is used for rugs. The term Asian is used for people. And to add insult to injury, your “columnist” makes a joke with the term disoriented. TACKY, RUDE, etc. I think whoever “wrote” that should get the Scum Alert of the year award!

We wonder if rugs get offended and want to be called “Asian.”

Being that this here space is reserved for only the most politically correct writing in the paper, we’ll have to agree with the author. From now on, all disparaging comments will be directed strictly toward gapers, rednecks, people from northern states who say “Ya,” foreign citizens who can’t get NBC “Must See TV” and, therefore, can’t partake in culturally relevant conversation and people who still wear plaids and paisleys.


Our field agent Charlotte called us a “silly goose” (jeepers!) after taking a jab at people who put thermos bottles in the refrigerator. Although we contend that putting cold things in a thermos is thermodynamically feasible, we still think it’s weird. What’s even more weird, though, was part of Charlotte’s explanation:

” … Likewise for ice chests. They are great for hauling hot potluck dishes in or keeping 100 baked potatoes hot for a party. (Have you ever tried cooking and keeping that many potatoes hot to serve? I did once … never again!)”

A hundred baked potatoes in an ice chest … We think we just found the beginning to our newest Seuss-ical poem.


It’s Thursday, or as it’s called around here, Praise the Mouse Succubus Day. Let us know what you’re dreaming about at, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just sing a lullaby on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998 ext. 237.

We’re calling up the Dalai Lama to see if he’s got a rhyme for “ice cube in a thermos” …

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