I emailed an old friend last week. He is probably my closest friend in terms of our knowlege about each other. Guys are not like girls in that respect. That is he dosen't know my inner-most secrets or anything. It's just that we've hung out so much together that we have been able to gather a lot of information about each other. Anyway, I haven't seen him now in about five months so I missed the banter we always shared a little bit. We'll meet for lunch sometime this week. That will be good. Anyway, I remembered a piece I wrote for him a year or so ago and I thought I'd share it. Here goes:

The Prospector

Pick axe over one shoulder, crumpled old map in the other hand, tattered brim pulled low over his sweaty brow, the old prospector shuffled along the rock strewn path toward a promising looking ridge along the horizon. As the sun creeped ever lower over the surrounding countryside, he glanced around quizzically thinking to himself, "now just exactly how in the hell did I get here?" It seemed years ago that he set out with a dream and a promise to himself of a life worth living.

He lowered the axe to the ground, leaned the handle against his side and turned to the seemingly ancient old grey mule behind him. Stopped in the dust of the path, he pulled the hat from his brow and using the sleeve of his well-worn shirt wiped the drips of sweat from his forehead. Turning his head westward, he squinted at the last remaining rays of the sun. Pursing his trail-dried lips together he wondered, "Well, maybe I should head up past the ridge to that rise of rocks. A few hours with the pick just might prove worth while." He reached his bony left hand across his body and rubbed his right shoulder. Seemed that axe got heavier each day.

Old Betsy snorted and pawed lazily at the path. The old man looked down at his dirty boots, then back up at the mule. He quickly took inventory of the packs strapped to the mule's back. "Three days provisions. And I'm two days out." He never in a hundred years would have imagined himself in this time or place. But here he was nonetheless and he'd always made the best of things. He always pushed on. He always had. So he would again.
The low sun glinted rosy red off the bottom of his favorite old gold pan. "But the river's not two far down from that ridge. 'Sides, any gold on the ridge has most likely washed down into the river anyway. Maybe it would be time better spent to pan a little in the cool river water." The cool water. Yes, that sounded pretty good. It'd been days since the word "cool" had even entered his mind. "C'mon Bets. Lets get along now. There's a long drink of cool water at the end of this path. Cool water. Cool, cool water."