We inevitably end up back here—not here on the mountaintop, but here in the moment. Cloud fringes overhead tumble and roll, tracing a ragged battleline between the starlit tranquility on one side of the ridge and the storm brewing on the other. A most beautiful night for the matter at hand—the latest round of a friendly rivalry.
Upending the box sends the contents avalanching and clattering across the table. A log from the pile beside the brazier is snatched up as a makeshift scoreboard. The game—as always—is block dominoes.
“Do you have double-six?”
“Yep.” Tchk. Game on.
Our style is cutthroat—who plays honestly, plays to win—but neither of us is playing for glory. We are here for companionship rather than bragging rights. Conversation spills and cascades, flowing freely from the usual to the unusual and back again, all the while punctuated by the distinctive and familiar scrabble and clack of plastic on plastic. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Glasses are drained, replenished, and drained again. Scores climb slowly and evenly. The clock makes unbidden haste. We are well into the small hours before one of us surmounts 100 points. A narrow victory in a tight tug-of-war. We shake hands.
The game is over. The scoreboard is tossed onto the fire—by the time the sun rises nobody will care who won.
Words + Photo by Kenneth Jack