- Matthew Bromschwig
Driving North through the mountainous crag on a cold February afternoon.
Snow falling from the sky hits the ground as graceful as an expert gymnast nailing the landing of multiple backflips in a row. Rising along the mountainside, my ears starting to
almost almost like a cold, glass Snapple bottle's cap after being turned for the first time would.
Looking to my left at the base of the mountain is a small town. The smoke billowwing from the chimneys of the houses appeared to have the consistency of cotton candy yet the force of a bull traversing a china store as it rose into the atmosphere. Turning back to the slick mountainous road I check my GPS. I'm almost there.