This is my favorite picture of myself, though the image may be too telling.

It was a piece of cake job, if you ask me, a junket, especially as a break from the hot, dirty work of cutting fire lines.

I am sitting on the bank of Hot Creek at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, 10 miles or so from Mammoth, California. It is a bright day in 1972. I am marking fins, measuring lengths and weighing luminous brown trout that have just been netted from the stream after supposedly non-harmful electroshocking for a U.S. Fish and Wildlife survey.

I have a Thermos on the stream bank. I sip hot coffee between quick chores with the shining fish. I can absorb the view at the same time. The cold stream with thermal pockets runs through low brown hills below snow-topped peaks.

I don’t know who took the photo but I have managed to hang on to it. I still have the Thermos, too, though the glass inside broke when I took it to a Sierra Nevada reunion on another creek in 2012. I think I can still smell coffee and sunlight is glancing off the water.

First I just take in the blue, in this case in contrast with the white and green and brown. Then, at least this morning, I think of Maynard Dixon, power poles or no power polls, and thank the pueblos of Santa Ana and San Felipe for preserving the land and view.

My Cowboy 2 after hearing this morning’s coyote kerfuffle with dumb neighborhood dogs. He was quote “living outside” before his rescue by the Best Friends Sanctuary in Utah and then Animal Humane in New Mexico. These days in Placitas, he has no use for thunder, lightning or coyotes. He’s not even too sure about hiking. Been there, done that, he tells me.

My first Zozobra, Sept. 1, 1960.

Truly a monstrous front page, from the first-name reference to the governor to the juxtaposition of the “Natives Massacred” headline on a Congo story over a photo of Santa Fe kid in a Native headdress. In other news that day, my mother got hit in the head with an airborne Coke bottle in front of Zook’s on the Plaza.

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