New Wildlife Pics

Off to Squaw Valley Writers Workshop, but before I go, I wanted to post a couple of photos that Steve took in/around Grover Hot Springs during our 3-day camping excursion earlier this week. (Top photo is of a mule deer buck; he stood outside our tent in early evening and browsed on a plant that looked a lot like a wild rose; second photo is of a cinnamon-colored black bear with her two cubs. She appeared on the outskirts of Markleeville, around 12:00 p.m.)

First afternoon we were rained out, but timing was perfect: we'd just set up the tent when the first drops hit, and not having eaten yet, ate our sandwiches in the tent, then sacked out for a nap. That evening, we took a nice soak in the hot springs, and by 6:30 the next morning, the coffee was on the camp stove and Steve was off to do a little fishing in the creek. I stayed behind, finalizing my manuscript for Squaw, sipping coffee near the fire. Ah, glorious Sierra. How we love to visit.

Thompson Takes a Tumble

Steve and I just returned from two days at Grover Hot Springs State Park, located south of Lake Tahoe, on Hwy. 89, between highways 50 and 88, and just a few miles west of Markleeville (pop. 200; Steve and I love this little town).

After we picked out our campsite and Steve set up the tent, we had a few hours to kill before heading over to the campground pool (fed by the runoff from six mineral hot springs), so we drove over to East Carson River so Steve could test his new fly-fishing rod. I sat on a boulder and took notes while Steve walked the river. The water looked pretty shallow, so he decided to wear his old hiking boots as opposed to waders, and to forgo his walking stick. I watched him stride in, then took in a bit of scenery while he practiced casting. Both sides of the river were lined with rocks the size of basketballs and bean-bag chairs, and just above the south bank there was a ridge covered in green-gray sage and stately Ponderosas. Cottonwoods shimmered in the sun. Every so often I'd glance over at Steve, and pretty soon he called, "The rocks are really slick -- I wish I had my walking stick!" Not three minutes later he tumbled into the river, rolling slowly onto his left side, his new rod gripped in his right hand, which he'd raised high into the air. (I guess he didn't want to get it wet.) Declining to look at me at first, he got up, then turned my way and sheepishly smiled. "Don't write that down!" he hollered while I giggled and scribbled. (Steve is the most coordinated human I've ever met -- that he would fall was a record-breaking event -- someone had to get this on paper!)

Next morning, he propped his wet boots at the edge of the campfire's grill while drinking coffee and watching birds. Distracted by a Steller's jay, he forgot about his boots and the soles began to burn. And, yes, I wrote that down too. Lucky for me, Steve's a great sport -- not only does he take the photographs for my blog, but he lets me make fun of him too. (Chipmunk, above, was a pill!)