ManWeekend 13(?) was decidedly taken back … unequivocally and undeniably. Despite the huge drop in IQ due to the absence of our professor, who we certainly missed, we managed to string a few sentences together, have a few laughs and drink a couple sixtels.

First, the weather. In the context of MW, it was absolutely stunning with plenty of sun, warm temperatures and even a full moon during the evening. I think it’s valid to say that MW is not yet ole MW yet, as David showed us all as he rode the ridge on his bike … 6 times no less. Once again, according to the scriptures, it was proven that work does make the meat and whiskey and beer and fire more satisfying – with the giant pile of wood that was carefully and deliberately split, the weather door being replaced and the magic table that was conjured out of barn wreckage … fuck Harry Potter, that shit was real magic. 

Speaking of whiskey, while there was not whiskey fight, per se, but the spirit of competition was there with the top-notch selection. Manhattan’s started it off and we were elegantly shown by a true mixologist that a good drink is subtle, silky and palate pleasing, you don’t have to be fisted by whiskey (unless you like that kind of thing, Kurt).  The discussion continued over rye, bourbon and Tennessee whiskey… then later on around the fire we all got punched in the face by George Dickel. It was messy,it was bloody and it was beautiful.

It’s true we missed Paul’s meathole, (0ther MW?), but the beautiful steaks cooked perfectly over an open fire were very hard to beat.  New to the fire pit that replaced the constant critiques about pan placement and appropriate doneness of food, was a renewed sense of teamwork perhaps never seen before around the MW hearth. There was an effort to ignite some tension but really what remained was a culinary feat that could only be called exceptional. Those cuisine highlights included flawlessly cooked bacon, beautiful eggs that was a recipe for recharging after a somewhat long night of howling at the full moon  (otherwise known as singing around the fire) fueled by the aforementioned meat, whiskey, two sixtels of beer and cannabis beamed back from the future. When you thought it couldn’t get better, we are delivered beer drenched bratwurst… holy fuck it was good.

Not to say it wasn’t spirited. The asshole horn… made the rounds appropriately, although Jerry never held the horn despite his “hands on’ approach to conversation and lack of any understanding of personal space. 

Other highlights included golf and NotGolf. Streaming NHL around the fire. An icy dip in the pond, and a tremendous afternoon of shooting in the upper meadow (Ingar’s donation was greatly appreciated) and countless moments that are woven and connected through fire, smoke and various libations.

This mountain always provides, and yet, it is really the men who make the effort, who travel the miles, who adjust their schedules and who bring their own exceptionalism that make MW enduring, unique and staggeringly brilliant.  

Even as I write, my words are insignificant compared to the experience. I am exhausted, awed, beaten and recharged. I look forward to MW: Spawn weekend.  And many more MW’s to come.