Of sights unseemly
Dearest Journal, I did promise to complete my story of yesterday's geological hijinks, and so I shall.
Ramona jetted ahead of me in her new hiking boots, a veritable ball of energy and visible, tangible confidence. Midday sun glinted periodically off the two-day stubble on Ramona's toned calves, and I longed to reach out and touch her dewy skin. Ramona, marvel of nature and anatomical beauty that she is, seems never to sweat. I, on the other hand, perspired like the proverbial pig, making futile grunting noises as we two ascended the third of six glassy hills in the range not far from our mountain chalet. I begged Ramona to stop as we reached a crest, explaining that I knew of a fine set of pillow basalts in a rock face not far off the trail. Ramona held my elbow cautiously as I removed the machete from my belt and began to whack a trail through Beaver Valley's dense forest. Twigs crunched, and long-untrodden soil gave way to my mighty steps as I forged intrepidly farther into the deep woods. There is not, to my knowledge, a pillow basalt anywhere within fifty miles of Beaver Valley; that, however, is not for Ramona to know. A final latticework of vines fell away under my cool blade, and Ramona and I stepped into a shaded glen at wood's center. "It's beautiful," Ramona mouthed, barely whispering the words to the back of my neck. The scene was so idyllic that one hardly wished to disturb it with footsteps or unclean breath. Not a soul -- no bunny, caterpillar or macroinvertebrate -- seemed to dwell in that pasture, and one might think that it had been deserted for centuries. One might think so, that is, were it not for the heavily-carved bark of one particular tree. Several feet to our left, Ramona and I discovered an ancient red oak (Quercus rubra), of diameter no less than five feet, the bark of which was literally covered with the initials of various and sundry star-cross'd lovers through the ages. At the sight of 'Carl and Lucinda,' 'Jeremy and Martin,' and a slew of others, passion overtook me, and I advanced upon Ramona. I threw my arms about my lover's waist, pinning her husky form against the very tree that had stirred my well-kept longings only moments before. "Tandy--" Ramona gasped, barely able to contain her own rapture. "Think of the basalts!" Regretfully, I pulled away from my companion, eyeing her quizzically. Among the two of us, she has never been one to forgo a little hanky panky in the name of science. My gods, how does the woman think she and I got here in the first place?! In any case, my composure somewhat regained and my ego more than a bit bruised, I tramped back through the woods with Ramona in tow, furrowing my brow at each hot breath remembered, each stolen moment left deferred, each article of clothing still gathering sweat on my aching body, instead of lying dejected and alone on the forest floor.
What ever will I do with this woman? Alas, she is my love. She did complain all the way home, however, at not having seen any pillow basalts. Ah, dearest Ramona -- you're not the hardest granodiurite in the glacial moraine, are you?
Until later, dear diary, I bid you adieu.
~Dr. Tandiee St. Clare, Ph.D.
Ramona jetted ahead of me in her new hiking boots, a veritable ball of energy and visible, tangible confidence. Midday sun glinted periodically off the two-day stubble on Ramona's toned calves, and I longed to reach out and touch her dewy skin. Ramona, marvel of nature and anatomical beauty that she is, seems never to sweat. I, on the other hand, perspired like the proverbial pig, making futile grunting noises as we two ascended the third of six glassy hills in the range not far from our mountain chalet. I begged Ramona to stop as we reached a crest, explaining that I knew of a fine set of pillow basalts in a rock face not far off the trail. Ramona held my elbow cautiously as I removed the machete from my belt and began to whack a trail through Beaver Valley's dense forest. Twigs crunched, and long-untrodden soil gave way to my mighty steps as I forged intrepidly farther into the deep woods. There is not, to my knowledge, a pillow basalt anywhere within fifty miles of Beaver Valley; that, however, is not for Ramona to know. A final latticework of vines fell away under my cool blade, and Ramona and I stepped into a shaded glen at wood's center. "It's beautiful," Ramona mouthed, barely whispering the words to the back of my neck. The scene was so idyllic that one hardly wished to disturb it with footsteps or unclean breath. Not a soul -- no bunny, caterpillar or macroinvertebrate -- seemed to dwell in that pasture, and one might think that it had been deserted for centuries. One might think so, that is, were it not for the heavily-carved bark of one particular tree. Several feet to our left, Ramona and I discovered an ancient red oak (Quercus rubra), of diameter no less than five feet, the bark of which was literally covered with the initials of various and sundry star-cross'd lovers through the ages. At the sight of 'Carl and Lucinda,' 'Jeremy and Martin,' and a slew of others, passion overtook me, and I advanced upon Ramona. I threw my arms about my lover's waist, pinning her husky form against the very tree that had stirred my well-kept longings only moments before. "Tandy--" Ramona gasped, barely able to contain her own rapture. "Think of the basalts!" Regretfully, I pulled away from my companion, eyeing her quizzically. Among the two of us, she has never been one to forgo a little hanky panky in the name of science. My gods, how does the woman think she and I got here in the first place?! In any case, my composure somewhat regained and my ego more than a bit bruised, I tramped back through the woods with Ramona in tow, furrowing my brow at each hot breath remembered, each stolen moment left deferred, each article of clothing still gathering sweat on my aching body, instead of lying dejected and alone on the forest floor.
What ever will I do with this woman? Alas, she is my love. She did complain all the way home, however, at not having seen any pillow basalts. Ah, dearest Ramona -- you're not the hardest granodiurite in the glacial moraine, are you?
Until later, dear diary, I bid you adieu.
~Dr. Tandiee St. Clare, Ph.D.