Eggs. We are surrounded by brown-shelled farm eggs. They are sized small to extra colossal, sculptured by eons of wind and water and the wear of movement. "Eons." It's difficult to wrap one's mind around eons. "Short of infinity, but longer than the appearance of life on earth?" Most of us need images to understand such concepts. Imagine, if you will, draining all seven seas through a straw. That's eons.
|The "Mark of Zorro" under Mount Whitney, 14,495 feet|
We greeted each day with contemplation, gazing out as each sunrise cast a rouge glow upon clouds and mountains top to bottom, incrementally revealing the secrets held deep in shadowed canyons.
Unfortunately, my hiking partner had been struck down with a virulent flu… one of those nasty hybrid mutations that incubates to drug resistant perfection in school and daycare petri dishes all across America, and spreads via Walmart shopping carts with child seats.
Beyond sympathy and running to town to fetch bagfuls of Oreo McFlurrys, the only thing that soothed Bobbie's raw throat and dull appetite, there was little I could offer. So I point out the "Mark of Zorro" scar yonder on the mountainside and give my droopy soulmate notice that I'm going to attempt to bike to the intersection where Zig meets Zag. "Get some rest," I say, and peddle off on what looks to be a grinding uphill adventure… a favorite way to clear my head, better than any drug I've found.
Scenes from some six days of camping in the friendly Hills of Alabama above Lone Pine, California…