A merciful fog enveloped the hills. I say merciful because it curtained off the clearcuts and helped produce a temperature of 59 degrees at precisely the same time it was 99 in Portland.
Bonnie and Clyde and I made our way through the pasture to the river. The grass was wet and my shoes and socks quickly became damp. I’ll take that over 99 degrees any day of the year.
We passed mound after mound of fresh elk scat. A herd had probably moved through here at dawn.
Other dogs might have gone berserk after sniffing up a fresh elk trail, but not Bonnie and Clyde. Clyde is never more than a foot way from my pocket full of treats and Bonnie is always loping in her own private goofy bliss that is unique to any dog I have ever spent time with. She seems more sprite than dog.
We reached the river. I am no Natty Bumppo but I knew the herd had forded at the same spot where I usually set up my portable writing studio of camp stool and TV tray. For one thing, I could smell scat!
There was elk energy all around. I thought I could write some original sentences if surrounded by elk energy, although heretofore I had never written a word under that particular influence. (How many writers have?) Maybe that energy would help me write the Big Book I always dreamed of writing, believed I could write. It wouldn’t be an elk book, but then again, maybe it would. Who knew where the influence would take me? Just follow the elk across the river, across the pasture, up into the hills and into the fog.
Clyde plopped down on the gravel near the tray and snoozed. Bonnie was of course communing with fairies in the high grass. I sat on the stool, sniffed the air and watched a beaver stick float by and one alder leave twirl to the water. I began to write.
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