Rode upward. Over dug out ditches, towards clear-cuts. Saw nary a bird. Heard a few rodents piking at me from rocks and stumps. Picked a bunch of Huckleberries. The temperature was 10º lower in the bush. Somebody has been killing the bears and polluting the night sky. The berries smell like fine wine. Picked enough for a batch of jam. The bugs won’t let up. A storm hit the mountainside across the way, leveling the timber. There is no salvaging any of the wood. Most of it fell over a cliff. We will taste summer come December. Thanks to the Huckleberries and the heat.