Sunday, August 19, 2018 - Mitchell Lake
The sky was partially blue, and the destination too.
A cool cloudy day, both on the plains and up high, with light misty rain falling, and no lightning. It was the sort of quiet rain that reminds me of the short story by Ray Bradbury, "There Will Come Soft Rains," based on this 1918 poem by Sarah Teasdale:
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
The weather kept the crowds away, and parking was available at the Mitchell lot. I walked a little past Mitchell Lake and started up the hills toward Blue, but shortly after crossing the slippery logs over Mitchell Creek, found I had neither the time nor energy to continue.
On descent, the skies cleared and the rain stopped. Some people who had been retreating turned and headed back up, but most were on their way out. By the time I reached the parking lot, it was half empty.
Nederland was similarly less crowded than usual, although Happy Trails was packed for some reason. Had a couple of chicken tacos, scraping the cilantro away, of course. I have discovered that lime juice seems to neutralize the flavor. Worth experimenting with this idea, since chefs seem to think everything needs cilantro these days.