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The buzz on the ski boards was Ski Bolton Tonight. Boring, did that  
last week.

Me, I headed to towering Mt. Ellen. Why? 'Cause I'm a loner. A rebel.  
A skier without a name.

Or skier without a brain. Just like I did two or three times last  
season, I climbed a 4000' peak between six and 8 PM at night, and was  
thoroughly surprised that it was not sunny and soft up top like in  
was in my mind's eye when i let work this afternoon. Rather, it was  
28 degrees at summit,  and by the scratch of the snow not much warmer  
than that at the bottom by the time I got back down. The snow was not  
corn a sprayin'. No, sir, not at all.

But the views from the top of the waning sunset and waxing lights of  
the big city were pretty, and so were the stars and moon when they  
came out. I took it all in, vaguely aware that despite being an East  
Side tribesman, with sretsoF Oil Can in hand, I was still in tune  
with my old West side sidekick Rusty. Salut, brother.

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