I asked chatgpt to relight Ridge with a ray of sunlight, which is the photo below. You always have to tell it to not change the border collie face or eyes or body proportion or anything else in the background, otherwise what will come out as a dog you don't recognize. This image is exactly like the original except for the lighting. He is getting to a handsome boy at 9 months old. I am learning to manage a very aggresive dog though. He hates mountain bikes and bicycles and will chase them.

I took this image on Sunday, February 8, climbing a steep slope trying to find an offtrail shortcut. It was an area I never been to before and I guarantee I would never do it again. I had to keep going up until I got to the ridge and then could move over to the north which was my destination. Anything else below the ridge was too steep or cut off by rock outcroppings. I was concentrating on not having an accident and barely paid attention to the border collies. But they were up above and out in front and having the time of their lives. True mountain dogs

Since last Thursday I’ve been deep in my quiet life—mountain trails, pine air, dogs trotting ahead, the lake holding the sky. A kayak cutting across water that asks nothing from me. Dark movie theaters. Long walks.

No explanations.

No negotiations.

No one questioning how I spend my time.

I’m built for that life.

But by the time Thursday rolls around, something shifts. The quiet that felt like freedom starts to feel like a pause. The Rose lights up, the floor hums, and I’m ready to trade solitude for rhythm.

I stand off to the side at first. I always do. Watching. Letting the right song find me. When it hits—something with a clean rhythm and a little swing—I cross the floor and ask.

Sometimes she says no.

Sometimes she says yes.

When she says yes and we lock into the same beat, when our timing clicks and the music carries us instead of the other way around, it’s hard to think of a better feeling. Not because of the steps. Not even because of the closeness.

It’s the shared spark. Two strangers agreeing, for three minutes, to trust the same rhythm.

I love women—not in some grand, abstract way—but in the way they light up when the music takes hold. The quick smile that says, Yes, this works. The laugh when we both miss a turn and recover. The way their eyes soften and everything else just falls away.

#countrydance #grizzlyrose #denver

I’ve lived alone with my border collies since 2002, when my wife of twenty-six years left. Over time, I built a life around that solitude—hiking long miles into the backcountry, camping under cold stars, telling stories in schools, and dancing through more nights than I can count.

It’s been a good life. Quiet. Free. Entirely my own.

Most evenings, the house settles early. The dogs circle twice before lying down. Their breathing fills the room. After a while, even the refrigerator hum feels loud.

You get used to going to sleep knowing the only ones who would miss you are the two border collies who’ve climbed every ridge beside you. There’s comfort in that kind of loyalty. It asks nothing complicated of you. Just show up. Throw the ball. Lace your boots. Go.

And if I’m honest, sometimes there’s a thin current of self-pity running beneath it. Not dramatic. Just there.

After more than two decades alone, your habits harden into architecture. Your rhythms become load-bearing walls. Inviting someone into that space feels less like romance and more like renovation—moving furniture you’ve stopped noticing, knocking out walls you built to keep the weather out.

I’ve told myself this life is enough. In many ways, it is. My young border collies give me loyalty, joy, uncomplicated love. I take care of myself. I hike. I eat well. I don’t smoke. I haven’t had a drink in twenty-six years.

But there’s a part of me—steady, quiet—that would welcome someone close.

Not to fix anything.

Not to rescue me.

Just to sit beside me when the house settles,

and share the quiet.