July 25
Maximus rests under the feathered shade of a spruce bough with his paws tucked under his body & his chestnut eyes following each swing of the mattock. Intermittently, we hear the rising sound of Wils & Moose crashing through the willows, seeing the bush-tops jerk in rapid succession before they both burst out onto the clearing with great wide smiles, tongues wagging & eyes bright. I’ll pull at the tundra, around the swath I’ve axed out, & use the pick to pull the heavy duff & soil to the brush pile. & look over & see Kristin cursing a root buried deep under the top-layer while she brings the pulaski down over & again. & look past her to see Healy ridge off to the south, dusted with vestigial snow from the cold snap last week, bathed in a uniformly crisp light. Past it, the ridgelines we finally found up past Sugarloaf, a kind of alpine running paradise. To the East, Dora & Jumbo & Walker Domes, & the endless strip of tundra yawning out pa