We saw what we thought was a hawk or other raptor flying ahead of us on the road, but after about a quarter of a mile of it flying above the road, when it alighted on a branch we saw that it was a raven. It was a sign, I’m sure.
We also had a deer moment on the road where we were reminded that deer always travel in pairs.
The weather was at turns sunny and overcast. This was fine with me because just as one would start to feel chilly from the wind or a little overheated from the uphill hike in the sun, the weather would change.
Mostly we walked through pine trees. On the steeper areas, the base of the tree trunks curved downhill; this is where the snow, melting downhill, has repeatedly bent the trees over successive Winters and Springs.
The trail to the lake ran along a stream; we were able to cross over without getting wet because the stream bed was dry. Further on, we did see sluggish water held back by rocky formations, and even further the stream widened into a marshy, open meadow.
Indigo Lake was not indigo when we visited it. It was green, to Mark’s disappointment. When we first encountered the lake, at its northern end, the wind blowing on it gave it a voice of a thousand lapping tongues. The only competing sound was the swelling rush of the wind through the pines, which sounded like something produced by Wendy Carlos in a mid-seventies recording studio. (“Psithurism” is the name of my next Mediaeval Synth Band). Overhead, clouds raced by Sawtooth Mountain.
We followed the lake’s shore to the mountain’s talus. I located a Chrysler-sized rock slab (one of many) for us to lounge upon and Mark broke out the blue cheese, almonds, walnuts, and crackers. I broke out the Ceylon OP.
And we listened. And waited. For pika.
They came. We heard their cheeping first.
One came close enough for me to be able to get a photo of Mark peering at it through a small monocular.
Mark was enchanted by its small, round, black ears and its whiskers. Unfortunately, there was no gift shop near, as the closest Ranger Station was about thirty miles away; so I could not purchase a plush pika for Mark to be a companion to the plush baby orca I purchased for him a couple weeks ago at Port Townsend.
I broke out some pens and pencils and sketched the rubble pile the pika was hiding behind.
Even though it was a secret, unspoken desire that I was silently talking myself out of, Mark had a psychic moment and forbade me from hiking through the talus to see if I could locate a surfboard-sized one to slide down the slope on.
Then it was time to head back home and Rescue the Dog from Ennui.
We managed to miss the rain while we were in the mountains, only encountering it on the drive back to Eugene.
