a friend told me once that we can collect stories, keep them safe in a box with enough room for plenty. and on cold afternoons, when it's cloudy and quiet and calm in these winter days, i love to open this box and read those stories to myself. they are happy and proud, of adventures i never imagined i would have, laughter that returns months later with the same contagious life of its' own, mountains i never thought i could climb. they are the stories for years to come.

today i'm remembering our day in italy at the mountain hut. climbing up the last piece through the forest, in the shadow of the most magnificent glacier i've ever seen. being able to keep up with the strong hikers for the first time, and my friend the french guide with the big muscles winking at me from the ledge above. meeting the sexy cook and his children that play with the horses. eating so much of his fresh pasta and tiramisu in the bar that felt like a warm fire and tequila after skiing all day until it started snowing again. feet up in the inner tube and beer on the house. a cute bartender and staying up late. sleeping with all 14 in the same room and the snoring of many. whispered conversation with jill in the hallway outside. morning and the mountains still surround us. coffee on the porch and a day ahead of us.

hut.

small hut.