An unfortunate reality of living in the Rocky Mountain West is the annual fire season. This year smoke hangs in the air, the famous hundred mile views of my home state are obscured, and it gets harder and harder to breathe. I wake up at night with the taste of wood smoke in my mouth and the sting of it in my nose. It is the smell of campfire unchanged from my earliest memory. Strange to have a smell I have long associated with joy and peace become such an unwelcome companion.
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