I wanted that scar, damn it. I wanted to be able to strip my sleeve up to my shoulder when school got back and wave that contused, jagged line in front of all the other boys in fifth grade. I wanted to be able to say, in my best Chuck Yeager, “Aw, it’s nothin’, but let me tell you how it happened: There I was, at the top of the road into Rattlesnake Gulch, with fresh rain frozen over the old snow in the ruts left when the wranglers hauled their trailers out to the upper pasture. Just me and my Flexi-Flyer, and that road challenging us to take the ride of a lifetime.”
That’s what I wanted, at least.
Problem was, I was the only one in Ouray County who actually called it Rattlesnake Gulch. And it wasn’t, when you came to look at it, all that much of a hill.
As promised: finally, a story in which (I promise!) nobody dies.
You can go straight to the story over on Medium.com, or wander over to my Patreon page for a little background on the story, and a chance to learn how to encourage me to keep writing.