Memory jumps and skips spiralling outward in a zig-zag mental fall from grace. Just got back from camping in the Sierra Foothills east of Fresno. A little piece of paradise called Finegold, big orange dragonflies still buzz the back of my head, shoulders and forehead glow from too much sun. Frogs and rabbits came to me, imparted time-release knowledge I'll overstand someday. Rode my mountain bike to Crook Mountain, peered down at Millerton Lake at deepest dusk, flew down through the invisible dust drift curves which gripped my wheels with ferocity, almost throwing me once, imparting silent time-warp two-wheel drifts other times. Not a lot of smells out there, too dry, except near the creek. I mistook the bullfrog croaks there for horse brays, laughed about it later. The kids had a blast, although I did find little Gumba covered in large black ants once, and massive red welts cover the boy from who knows what type of critter. When we'd driven three quarters of the way home Gumbo asked "Can we go to Finegold?". Later, while getting him ready for bed I asked,
"So, which do you prefer, Burning Man or Finegold?"
"Finegold!" he answered, without hesitation.