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Trash at 10,000 ft.

As many of you already know, I’m addicted to all things Wyoming. My family lived there when I was very young, and I visit the state at every opportunity.

One of those times was the week of July 11 – 18 as part of my annual pilgrimage to backpack the Wind River Range, and the Bridger Wilderness in particular.

For the most part, it is pristine high country – for the most part. The rule in the back country is haul out what you haul in. So it was with some dismay that Twix and Quaker Chewy Granola Bar (more than one of these) wrappers were among the junk found around campsites or blowing loose above 10,000 ft. I should’ve taken photos of this debris but was slow on the draw to do so.

It seems slobbery knows no altitude or state boundaries. If we can’t keep a wilderness area clean, what hope is there for the more populated areas?

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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