A. came over on the noon ferry. The weather had turned glorious on the crossing, and we darted straight up the mountain.
Destination, Obstruction Point. From Victoria, the Olympics sometimes loom as massive and delectable as Himalayas on the horizon; and I'd promised her this magical foray towards Shangri-La.
"Here's where the marmots were," I said as we rolled along, and whoah, there they were.
The road's been open since the middle of July, and will close as soon as it snows. We walked a little distance along the Lillian Ridge trail, windy, cold, beautiful. It got darker, clouds were moving in, maybe. Time to go? Goodbye for eight or ten months, paradise.
Except I may have to go back up after work one day this week to examine the amazing flaming bushes by the road in the woods. What on earth are they, and why did I not look more closely after I decided, no, I may not pick a leaf....