It continues to be cool enough to kayak in a sweater, but the trees are filled out and carpets of dandelions, sprinklings of violets, and some tough 'lil alpine flowers have bloomed, even amidst the snowy ridge tops. Fleeting appearances of full sunshine didn't align to produce morels (that I could find, anyway), but we enjoyed decent weather for the annual hike to Skilak Glacier. Thirteen people tromped to the lagoon -- current and former staff, plus a few disparate friends. Four carried pack rafts to paddle back down the river; I took one for a quick spin to see how they handle (feather-light and super responsive), and caught the bug for a new hobby. But I didn't envy the owners, paddles strapped to their heavy packs, when we bushwhacked through alder thickets.
And then, finally, we switched gears into guest mode, everyone in their actual jobs and schedules. At last, cooking on my own and able, for a few theoretically uninterrupted hours, to organize a somewhat meager, ragtag collection of food into a nice dinner. I made baguettes again for the first time in four years; I brainstormed in dietary-restriction-despair one day "vegan marzipan cake -- raisin glue???" and made something reasonably successful; and I cranked punk rock nice and loud while I poured cans of beer into a bowl for pretzel roll dough. That was a nice moment, sardonic and buoyant.
Another nice moment was post-shift, start of the weekend, just finished with cleaning and food order paperwork. A classical piano album was ending. One of the dishwashers is also a fan, so we put on Glenn Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations, sat on the floor, under the kitchen table like when I was a kid, and let the music wash over everything. The superlative synchronization, feeling in sync, synchronicity.
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