On the eve of the Cold Moon, the last full moon of 2024, it seemed like a good idea to do a ceremonial hike up to Empire Pass. My plan was to write down on a piece of paper all the things I wanted to get rid of. You know, all of the bad juju I didn’t want to take into the new year. And then I’d burn it all up and let it go.I decided to invite my friend Kathy, who’s in the process of ending a long-time marriage. “Just what I need,” she replied. “I have enough stuff for a full-on bonfire.”It was about 7 p.m. when we parked at Mid-Mountain Trailhead. The moon was low in the sky, barely peeking through the aspens, as we started to walk up the snow-covered road. It was dark and silent with the road closed to traffic at this time of year. They don’t call it a Cold Moon for nothing, I thought, out of breath and freezing in my parka and inappropriate footwear.About halfway up, we decided to take a shortcut onto what may or may not have been one of the trails at Deer Valley. We figured we’d have a better view of the moon from there. A good idea in theory, but not so much in reality as we found ourselves post-holing through thigh-deep snow drifts. Ice-filled Sorel wedge booties be damned, we eventually made it onto firm snow and found a spot where we could perform our Cold Moon ritual.I dug a Barbie-sized fire pit in the snow. Kathy and I unfolded our pieces of paper, and took turns reciting all of the stuff we wanted to release. The darkness that would no longer serve us in the light of a new year.Dramatically brandishing a Bic Kum & Go lighter, I flicked a tiny flame. There was a spark and one edge of the papers seemed to catch. But then, nothing. After multiple attempts, we decided to head back to the car and try where it was less windy. It turns out bad mojo does not go gently into that good night.We slid on our butts down a steep embankment and started making our way up a road lined with a couple of street lights. “Where the hell are we,” I asked, pausing to pull clumps of frozen snow out of my booties. Our winter hike in the woods had somehow transitioned into a possibly illegal hike up some billionaire’s private drive.“Wait a second — I think we need to be heading that way,” Kathy said, pointing in the opposite direction toward some faraway flashing red lights.Go into the light, I said to myself like the clairvoyant old lady in the movie “Poltergeist.” I put my hand in my pocket and touched the damp, folded-up piece of paper. All the bad juju I wanted to let go of was holding on for dear life.Why is it so hard to let go? Is it because we’re afraid it might mean we’ve given up? We fight. We strive. We try so freaking hard to hold on, post-holing in the deep. But for what? Maybe letting go is just accepting things the way they are. And being hopeful that the bad stuff will lead to something better.The horizontal red lights we’d been walking toward turned out to be the gates of the private drive. As we approached, one of the gates automatically lifted like a magical Checkpoint Charlie to let us go.Back at the car, Kathy found some bev-naps in her glove compartment. We wadded them up and tossed them in the snow. They ignited easily with the Bic’s flame. We both carefully placed our pieces of paper and watched them dance in the firelight. The edges blazed and curled, our handwritten words disappearing into ash. I looked up at the Cold Moon, shining in the sky as bright as day. From the dark into the light. And I realized there was no letting go of either.The post Betty Diaries: The impossibility of letting go appeared first on Park Record.