Descending into the fog enshrouded Valle Crucis there was only a hint of promise of the show to shortly follow. I parked my Jeep along the fence row near the wetlands of the Sustainable Development farm. The humidity in the air exaggerated the scent of wild roses, much like a little old lady sitting in the front church pew fanning her overindulgent use of Jean Nate in the wrong direction. Then, a cowbird clinging to a pussy willow announced my arrival. "She's here. Let the show begin." And then the sun surely poked through the clouds, selectively painting the hills and vale.
At the end of my jaunt, six inches of my jeans and my brand new Privos (on sale@Mast Store-thanks Mom!) were covered in summer's dew.