I was so tired and so relaxed, stretched out on the comfortable padded window seat at the end of a long day of skiing. It started subtly — just a small twitch in my foot. Then the inexorable spread — calf, thigh, the other foot, the other thigh. In the enclosed space of a backcountry hut at 11.500 feet my crazed St. Vitus’ dance of pain struck my friends as hilarious. By the next morning I had written this tune which unfortunately continues to be relevent on most of my trips after a demanding day in the backcountry. I didn’t know about the pickle cure then — I should add another verse.
