The last few days have been indicative of springtime murk; Tibetan winds lashing the landscape from the Roof of the World, intervals of gentle, but phantasmal, sunlight, and snow squalls-but, in springtime context, only blowing slightly to the side. The infusions I have had of lapsang souching I secretly hope are my last for a bit. See, the other day, just before the weather turned, I saw the first hummingbird of the season. An omen of shorts and breaking in that new pair of sandals I just got. The ticks are out and the seeps sing the invocational hymnals of runoff. Greening buds hold their breath before sprouting their leaves. Portends of the cyclic sloughing of seasonal skins. Sabina mentions mixing rum into boat drinks.
Someone attending the community melodrama during the opening weekend claimed to have seen a mountain lion. Big doings in a small town, but, given our location, such creatures are about. Sabina offered for me to borrow her pistol to run the Bull's Head. My solitary walkabouts suddenly becoming a matter of grave concern. Some would call this a sweet gesture, but, without me, she'd have to find some other sucker to pay my half of the mortgage. I mentioned to her it's hardly unusual for me to see a cougar around the house.
Would you be shocked if I told you that Sabina, nine years my senior, flipped me off for that remark? I know I was.
In the old snow behind the rock formation from which the trail takes its name the only tracks were mine from the last time I was that way and the fresh ones of a chickaree that bitched me out when I unintentionally wandered too close to its midden. Parts of the ruins of the Diamond Mine were partially submerged and the runoff had carved fresh channels through the tailings.
Interesting is a conservative term of what it may be like when the water really gets flowing this go around...
Sometimes, if I can swing it, after a walkabout, I take myself for out for lunch. Research for travelers, I justify it. We don't go out to eat together much. Sabina has remarked in the past she lives with a wonderful chef-such a polite way of mentioning I dabble about in the kitchen-and it's silly to pay someone else to do the dishes. During the summer, many of my lunch excursions are Tibetan buffets with her when we go to do laundry. I catch myself looking forward to curries, saag, and tandoori chicken on that veranda under the big mountain sky.
I had a salmon burger with swiss cheese and bacon along with some home fries at an establishment that's been around since the Dead Sea had a head cold. I was taught you do not even so much as put salt on what you're eating before the first bite, and the mark of a good cook is when you don't need condiments. The small dab of ketchup on my home fries was more out of tradition than anything else.
Peter Gabriel was playing as I finished up. From the library I'd picked up a David Attenborough narrated documentary about Madagascar. I was going to be making Moroccan herbed chicken for supper. The snow blowing through was not sticking and meteorological prophecy foretells of mild days ahead. Be that as it may, the day I've caught myself in has been shaping up to bordering on perfect. Well, as perfect as it can get without being boring.