The sun took one last, deep breath before it plunged below the distant western horizon. The trees were still, the last light of day glinting off the new leaves of spring. All was quiet. The singletrack weaved and contoured over ridges and through small hollows and canyons. Far above the massive Timpanogos watched sleepily, slowly waking to the light as the snow melts rapidly into the rivers. The quiet hum of the city seemed distant and irrelevant.
Soon after the light had gone, and the mountain vanished into the dark of night. Another day passed. Another day in the Wasatch.