The Blue Lakes en route to Mt. Sneffels hold their own with Telluride's Alta Lakes from last writing.
And try to go with someone who knows the ins and outs of city traffic, the best Indian food, and friends and family brimming over with hospitality. Because work-mandated physical exams and the submission of Kafkaesque* bureaucratic paperwork acutely intensifies the soullessness of the 'burbs.
*I haven't yet dropped this one at a cocktail party, Mrs. Shelley-Barnes, but I have deployed it occasionally in writing.
on top of old Baldy
On another note, I have been impressed -- not for the first time -- how delicate is the degree to which shade and wind protect or menace one. In the blazing sun, my sweaty self rallies under the canopy of trees and gratefully forges on into the wind. But of course the same moderate breeze and cloud-cover is carelessly lethal and effortlessly consumes human warmth, challenging our internal flame. Maybe that's why campfires are so satisfying: sitting on the edge of that threatening cold, staring at the ethereal substance of our survival and comfort. And to look up at the stars, a billion enormous yet tiny pinprick replications of our campfire, burning much too far away to actually warm us, but gratifying as distant indication of such fire.
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