We stride through the shuffling leaves, letting their crunch and shoof speak into our silence. Our eyes travel up the path, each on our own side, sliding along the trunks to puffs of color. Dabbed on leaves that remind us both of our sponge work that time we tried PaintNite. No need to mention it or even share a little wink or nod, but we dwell in the memory. For several paces it hangs between us with its thick paints and brushes like day camp supplies, its layered canvases and smocks as we dipped into each other's palettes. Then we crest the hill and a checkered spread of reds and yellows rolls out below us, pricked with evergreen flourishes. We sigh in unison. Stretching legs and backs, we linger there at the top, admiring the climb behind us as much as the valley ahead. To one side, the well-marked trail leads to parking lots and her packed-up bags; to the other side, a vague break in the leaves meanders down below that gorgeous layer.
And now I stand atop another hill, boots caked and heavy from the trudge. The canvas below has been brushed with fresh white, deep and thick enough to remove all trace of prior art. Up here there are no paths, no single obvious way except the one line of boot prints I brought with me. The rising sun glitters across the slope with the cold beauty of unsold diamonds. Soon it will be crushed and plowed by hundreds of toboggans, inner tubes, and laughing children, but for this one moment it hangs below me, steep and fast, a blinding rush. I lay out my bit of plastic sled and tumble awkwardly inside, my rear in the air as I gather speed, breaking a new trail.
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