being a week of Speed at Bonneville,

dogs,

entropy

and smoke.

At one point I finally made it over to our other guest cabin

with its resplendence of thrift store art

forest views

and 1980s sculpture not yet destructed, all

at a discreet distance from the house

where we and the dogs woke up to the aptly named Big Grass Fire which originated on

Grassy Mountain in Oregon but spread rapidly across the Owyhee into Idaho, jumping the river

canyons and by Sunday was over half a million acres and very difficult to fight along its southern

edges, where it seems the gasline pumping station Dave and I walked out to from Dickshooter Ridge as seen below in 1978 may, like all Dickshooter, have been already overrun.

Meanwhile here all through that the week remained stultifyingly hot, smoky and with flat light of no interest for endless torpid days.

Monday we went to town anyway, because we had too, and I wonder if anyone else out there

who follows at the weather has noticed that all summer the weather of record tends to run

consistently ten degrees cooler than the weather recorded by their household thermometers?

Didn’t used to, but today’s alleged high of 84 at Libre read as 94 in the shade at 8,000′.

As the world burns a thought for August 10th from First Dog on the Moon;

“How unfortunate that our already puny democracy is being monstered by the pallid whims of dead-eyed griftillionaires”…what to do, what to do.