So it comes down to this. I know about the big fire in the Olympic National Park. I did not read or hear about it in the news. I was, however, looking down on it from the summit of Mt. Jupiter. Now that I am living the country life, far flung from the urban center, I am closer to the edge. At least the edge of the Olympics. Hiking in the Cascades will be supplanted by hiking in the land of many consonants. The Dosewallips, Hamma Hamma, Humptulips and all of the other east range rivers are going to be my playground now.
Today I paddled new waters, finding the put-in for Blake Island and the sanctuary between the northern Bremerton ferry run and the southern Southworth ferry run. Not so good being chummed by a ferry boat. They have the right-of-way tonnage.
Yesterday the coals were fired and the salmon seared, to be consumed al fresco at the gloaming of the day.
Today, apres paddle, the blueberries were harvested once again to adorn this evenings ice cream.
A grasshopper just joined me on the deck, soaking up the last sun of the three-day weekend.
I have things to thing about, an apple harvest to do something with, a fig tree that will hopefully produce fruit and a hammock to hang. Busy busy Bokononist I am. Today, exile is not so unpalatable.
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