The March blizzard left me with a near lethal level of cabin fever. Imprisoned in cold and brown and bleak the pressure was building to bursting. I had to grasp those prison bars, bend them apart with my bare hands and plunge a big booted foot through, escaping to find some glimmer of spring.

The fecund smell of living earth, the sound of bird life, a hint of green. If it exists within an hour of Cheyenne it would be happening along the lower Poudre River, the eastern edge of Fort Collins, Colorado. I sprung the bars, leapt into the car and headed south.


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