Larry Habegger

An intermediate-advanced skier gets his head turned in the Colorado Rockies.I picked my way down the sheer face, carving a turn here, braking on a bump there, peering over the edge as my ski tips bent into the packed snow and swept me left, then right. I was successfully finding a line down the mountain,

The plume of smoke rises from the tip of Manhattan, a gray cloud that billows high above the harbor and then flattens out and drifts south over the Statue of Liberty and slowly away. It doesn’t disappear, though, fed as it is by a continual smoldering from the wreckage of the World Trade Center, a

They don’t scuttle ships anymore, do they?
Chill wind ruffled the flags atop the pier fronts and drifting fog penetrated my sweater as I skated along the bay toward my office in San Francisco’s South of Market neighborhood. August days aren’t like this in many places, but this represented the cliched San Francisco summer we’ve all

Honneur et Patrie. Honor and Country. The words were drifting through my mind as I contemplated The Sculptor and His Muse, a brilliant and troubling bronze sculpture by Rodin. The poor sculptor (Rodin himself?) was being tormented, or loved, or consoled, it was hard to tell, by a petite and beautiful woman. She stood hard on his thigh, leaned with all her weight on him as he bent away in despair, or longing, or frustration, her flowing hair draping his head while he covered his mouth with one hand.