I'm not usually one for "doing the voices" -- maybe a bit higher or lower tone depending on age and sex, clipped and precise or drawling. I'm sure my nephew would enjoy goofier interpretations when I read to him, and luckily the characters were vivid enough on their own when Matt and I read to each other. But of late I've been inspired by two of my day-off buddies to amp things up a bit. Their creative accents and tones so bring to life "The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place" and "Skunk and Badger" that I'm following suit. From within a tent we put on quite a performance for anyone in the vicinity of Kayak Beach on Kachemak Bay the other night.
We started reading aloud a couple weeks ago when, after dinner dishes and work was done but it was a bit early for bed, several of us gathered of an evening. This past weekend we had extra days off, and three of us journeyed in storybook fashion to a storybook land: a boat ride, a short drive, a long drive, another boat ride, to Grace Ridge trailhead at the far end of a fjord, in misty, densely wooded mountains. Past towering stands of devil's club and cow's parsnip; along a steep and muddy path; traversing a land now lush with ferns, now low mossy tundra; filling the air with varied cries to warn bears of our presence as we encountered alarmingly frequent and fresh piles of poop; we ascended to a hollow just shy of the summit and set up camp among the clouds.
It was very beautiful. Some patches of snow provided drinking water, and intermittent rain didn't stop my stove kicking out good meals. The next morning began with heavy fog down below which rolled up to sock us in with uncanny gauze. It wasn't quite to the level of imminent danger, but our perspective and sense of time were utterly suspended as we wound our way down, seeing only a hundred feet or so ahead.
And like Rat and Mole after an Edwardian adventure, I'm back in my cozy den, washed up and well fed, curling under heavy blankets to be rested for the next chapter with my fellow creatures.
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