Mountains

I spent the last week in the high Sierras, mostly in Palisade and Dusy Basins.

Frogs:

For a while, there didn't seem to be frogs in the Sierras. Now there are yellow-legged frogs, leopard frogs and a frog/toad who is lichen green with a black eye-stripe and brilliant orange under-thighs.

Marmots:

I am the Timothy Treadwell of marmots, except for the being devoured part. They let me hang out with them, permitted me to watch them feed (they shared roots with each other). I have given them names: Behemoth, Genghis and Victorianus.

What the mouse did:

One morning, in my green Lexan cup was a tiny mouse turd, and in my white plastic spoon was a tiny golden circle of mouse pee. He must have climbed into the cup to do this, then carefully oriented himself to achieve the desired aesthetic effect. Why in the spoon? Why at all? Some fine point of rodent mentality is at work here.

Talus:

Talus climbing is the perfect rock-climbing art, a constant calculation of force, angle, balance, speed and risk, devoid of the unwanted interpolation of effete and clanking gear between myself and the rock.

Except with a pack on. With a pack on, it's grunting hell.

Now:

Now I'm back in the desert, working rather slowly on a novel set in 1876 Galveston for which I cannot devise a name.