The sun may have thought about setting the clouds on fire but it was enjoying a moment similar to mine. Languid. Soft. Pastel. I was soaking at the Boiling River yesterday when the sky murmured a lazy pink seductive whisper to a lone white proud-as-a-peacock peak which had managed to catch the last blaze of bright light. Elk kept their heads down – dinnertime. I slurped up the last of my “Moscow Mule” and crab-crawled my way backwards up river to my clothes.