Last Tango

They were not the usual contents of the big recycle bin used by our modest little community. Unopened boxes of expensive adventure gear lay scattered amid the cans, jars, cardboard, and assorted paper products. Shining blue anodized aluminum tubing caught my eye. Brand new snow shoes, still in the box. Beneath them, an unused, full-body wet-suit lay crumpled ignominiously next to a milk carton. A high-end sleeping bag was under the wet-suit. Treasures mixed with trash, a mother lode for the scrounger. My neighbor must be cleaning out his stash of adventure gear, I thought. He's realized he's old and it ain't gonna happen: all those dreams of surfing, red-rock camping, and rough-country road tripping are going to forever stay in a lock box of intentions that he will keep under his bed, but never actually realize. Like him, I am looking at a future much more limited than what I am used to, but I extracted the snow shoes from the dumpster, then the sleeping bag and wet-suit. I'm not ready to toss in the towel just yet. I have a swan song summer on the horizon.