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There’s Gold in Them Hills

At typical ascent rates, at least as far as I can tell from decades of traveling back and forth across the earth—moving in search of knowledge, love, adventure, family, joy; fleeing from worry, work, confusion, loss, and grief—it takes less than four minutes for a fully loaded commercial aircraft to climb 7,000 vertical feet from sea level. This is enough time to turn a few pages of a book while your elbow kisses a stranger’s bicep; enough time to notice your ears fill near to bursting with awkward, bulky air; but not enough to allow for the strangeness of how close you’re getting to the clouds.

This past Thursday, it took me and five teammates seven hours and 45 minutes, including about an hour’s worth of quick breaks to eat, drink, and put on gear, to ascend approximately that same vertical distance. It was a journey of 5.5-miles (in one direction) that took us from Mile Marker 20 on the Cascade River Road to the knife-edge that is the summit ridge of Eldorado Peak at 8,868′, and during it we traversed a rushing river, pushed through rainforest, scrambled over boulder fields, crossed open, rocky meadows braided with streams and small waterfalls, and climbed steadily up and across both the Eldorado and Inspiration glaciers. When we were done we sat, full-hearted and sunburned, on the rocky spit that marks the edge of the peak, for three-quarters of an hour, naming cloud-lashed summits in every direction. Chocolate, dried mango, and satisfaction made a feast day. And then we turned around and headed home again, making it back down to the cars in about another five and a half hours.

If you add up our ascent, summit, and descent times you will arrive at 14 hours, car to car. This is enough time to sweat through your shirt once, twice, thrice, and then again; enough time for strangers to become, if not exactly friends, then partners of a wild and vital kind, who sense each other’s lightness and debility through strands of rope. But it is not enough—not really—to allow for the glory of how close you’re getting to the sky.

I was the slowest of the six of us, and I’ll admit that this was hard. The slowest climber in a group is always moving just a little faster than her own capacity, to keep from falling too much more behind. She rests the least and, if she is like me, frets the most. And yet climbing as far and fast as I did this week was more than I could ever have imagined, four short (long) years ago. I’m stronger than I was, and more forgiving when I fail to live up to my expectations for myself or to the standards that I steal from others without meaning to. I don’t give up, and though I grunt and pant and sometimes cry, I don’t give in to my frustration. Days like Thursday I still find a lump in my throat when I can’t go as fast as my companions, and it’s hard to speak to tell them not to worry—but even so, I think I’m better company.

Afterward, though. Those 14 hours shook awake the memory of how I fell in love with these great blue heights, these sharp green places, half a world away on my first summer out. I was not so strong and not so fast. But being a little weak and slow was also (I think now) a kind of gift. I was alone, and didn’t push, and gave myself allowance for the strangeness and the glory of it all.

There’s gold in them hills. I think I need to seek it out again.

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Looking up toward Camp Muir, before things got as gnarly as they would.

Today

I don’t reach easily for favorites. Perhaps it’s something tender left behind from early days, a hot primeval horror for the best that we are asked to place in front of friend and which becomes the world entire. Or maybe I just don’t like to commit. There is, however, one cool catalog whose topmost place, if it was mine to choose, I’d have no trouble with.

I have a favorite kind of bad weather.

Understand, when I say bad I don’t mean just unpleasant or annoying. I mean get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge bad; I mean it-may-not-kill-you-but-that-don’t-mean-it-won’t-try bad. And you may feel like sleet or hail or blizzards or typhoons should be front-runners here—but see, my favorite is a sneaky one. My favorite makes all other weather worse, and when it stands alone (although it never stands still for a moment) is formidable enough to take you down—or up, or over—without one peep from other players. Well, the thing is, I adore high winds.

I guess I don’t adore them right when they go at me, and especially not if I am setting up a large tent on the tundra or wheeling a suitcase full of laundry six blocks home. I guess today, standing 9,000 feet high on Rainier, less than a mile below our goal, I didn’t so much want to heap accolades on the gusts that NWAC’s Camp Muir wind gauges tell me blew at an entirely respectable 63 miles per hour at their strongest. I mean I guess I wanted them to die, and leave my face alone instead of throwing pointy bits of ice straight at it, and allow us to proceed without obscuring the way up in heavy clouds of spindrift.

But you know, favorites don’t always make sense. And if I tell you that the thing I love the most about the wind is that it makes you feel like you’re a boxer—not like rain or snow, which on their own are simply things you put your head down and endure—that wind is one to start a fight, and that it pulls at you until you have to muscle back at it, and use yourself against it—maybe you’ll agree and maybe you will not. I’m all right with that. Done with battles for the day.

The way up, seen when we were young and optimistic.

The way up, seen when we were young and optimistic.

Looking up toward Camp Muir.

Somewhere up there is Camp Muir. We made it to Moon Rocks, a spot right in the vertical middle of that long band of blowing snow.

The great Tatoosh Range, seen from a place where the wind was low(er).

The great Tatoosh Range.

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Yesterday

After a headache has been with me for several days, through four or five triptans, fading to a shadow for hours at a time before ticking back into being like an ancient heart that cannot, will not, is fated not to cease its tenure on this earth, I start to feel a little comradeship with the thing. The headache’s desire to live is inspiring. I think about mountaineering disasters in which savagely injured people, left without food or water for many dry days and frigid nights, pull themselves down couloirs and over glaciers and pick through rock fields like broken insects, every reason in the world to die and nothing on their side. I feel for the edges of the headache and count the time it has spent cheating oblivion. If my turn comes, I think, let me be as dogged. 

On Friday it had been three days, and I had reached the stage of comradeship. I was also tired of trying to teach myself R while the headache gathered its resources, and equally tired of the bed. I got dressed for a run, even though I knew it was a bad idea. I just wanted to be outside. Two miles in I had already stopped twice to grip my head in my hands for a minute before resuming, a pointless thing you do because it feels as if pushing back on the pulsing must be a way to quiet it. It isn’t, of course. But running jags pain, so I walked to smooth the headache’s sawteeth.

I run around the lake all the time, but when you run it’s hard to take in more from the periphery than the occasional rotary phone ring of a Red-winged Blackbird in the rushes, or the delicate coughing of a tea party of Coots on the water. I walk around the lake with Ross sometimes, but then we’re often talking, and talking turns you inward. This walk was slow, to placate the headache, and quiet, because I’d nothing more to say to it.

I spent a long time looking at the bark on a single Silver Birch, which had the appearance of a sheet of white ice stopped in the midst of cracking and to which all kinds of things of interest were attached. Amid the greenshield and the oakmoss was what looked like an adult crane fly that had lost its battle to escape from a web, all crumpled stilt-legs and sailor-striped abdomen and tracing-paper wings. There was another Dipterid, alive and well, its body a dusty terracotta orange and wings a mosaic of scotch-tape. A Black-capped Chickadee was making noise above, and since I learned to love them in Chicago I was, as always here, disconcerted to hear its clear, descending Ohhh well! replaced with a faint tremolo. I wondered if that ever would seem right.

A little further on, a flock of Audubon’s warblers with egg-yolk rumps and throats spilled whistles as they circled the canopy of a cedar, like Cinderella’s helpers laying tinsel. Everything seemed to be in that cedar at once, though a lot of that was surely the ventriloquism that all birds practice without effort. I heard House Finches and Song Sparrows and Brown Creepers and both colors of hyperactive Kinglets, not to mention Juncoes trilling like spring alarms that no one can snooze. Crows, of course, were ubiquitous; but I never tire of their chest-dipping caws or their roulette-ball clatter. The headache was no longer the only thing keeping time.

I kept stopping to look at things in odd places and sometimes people then stopped to look at me. It happened with a Great Blue Heron, which I watched for about 15 minutes cleaning its bill meticulously. Its stiff pink probe of a tongue kept darting out and in and out and in between the mandibles, as if it were a separate creature, and every now and then the heron would gulp abruptly from the water with what looked like anger but was nothing of the sort. I could see its soft crest blowing slightly in the breeze, and soothed myself in counting the gorgeous feathered fray of its chest. It was the antithesis of the hectic songbirds, which seem to compress life as we know it, life full of desire, into the smallest, speediest form it can take. The heron was large and slow, and even when it did familiar things, like drink and bathe and look at you, it remained strange.

Because I had stopped to look at the heron and a woman had stopped to look at me, she saw the heron, too. She inhaled from the cigarette in her hand and then flung that arm away, with what looked like disdain but was perhaps nothing of the sort. “There’s a really funny-looking bird over here!” she said to her friend, who was tucking a blanket around a child in a stroller and did not care to comment. The heron also did not care to comment.

This morning would have been Day Four with the headache, but I took the second-to-last of my month’s supply of triptans last night, and it slipped away in my sleep. I don’t miss it.

 

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A Brief Announcement, or Misadventures in Metaphor

I have something to tell you, and it’s a little bit exciting.

One way to telegraph my news would be to show you the perfect cast-off exoskeleton of a Jerusalem cricket (family: Stenopelmatidae) Ross and I found last year on a scrubby canyon slope in northern California’s Henry W. Coe State Park. You’d see, without me saying so, how I’d matured beyond my old, inflexible container and emerged a bigger, better version of myself, with room again to grow. You’d think about your own past lives, and how they weighed on you like winter overcoats before you shrugged them off and looked at them piled up beside your feet—or maybe how, unsentimental as an arthropod, you were one who abdicated your used skins at once they cracked, without a second glance.

You would think pleasantly of starting over.

Another way would be to show you my bad feet. That is, I have an x-ray of my feet (aren’t x-rays marvelous?), taken when the pain they’d caused for years became too chronic to ignore, and on which I can attempt to trace my errant and defiant bone alignments. I could show you this x-ray, and tell you that to molt is also to migrate, both words arising from the same Proto-IndoEuropean root that describes passing from one place to another. You’d understand how far I’d come already, and how much longer I still had to travel on these same crooked conveyances. Reviewing your own course, you’d think of moments when you stumbled, but kept on.

You’d cheer the journey.

These kinds of tropes are pretty enough, when they fit, and as a writer I am used to trafficking in them and shaping thoughts around them (a task which sometimes feels dangerously backward, as if images are more important than the ideas they represent). But the truth is I’ve been trying to share this with you for a while, and metaphors are only getting in my way. So I’ll just say it plainly, because it is news that doesn’t need much of a flourish.

I’m starting a PhD in Biology at the University of Washington this fall!

(It does deserve an exclamation point.)

I’m delighted and honored to say that I’ll be joining a wonderful and very productive lab run by plant community ecologist Janneke Hille Ris Lambers. The Hille Ris Lambers lab conducts research that (broadly speaking) attempts to discover the mechanisms driving biodiversity, productivity, and community assembly, and to predict the effects of climate change on a variety of ecological patterns and processes at the species and community level. People in the lab study all kinds of things within this framework, many of them working on Mount Rainier because the mountainside provides a useful—as well as beautiful—system for studying change along an elevational/environmental gradient. I’m not sure yet of the exact shape of the project I’ll propose, but I know Janneke’s lab will be a fantastic place to pose some version of the basic question that most interests me: What role do interactions between species play in determining responses to climate change? I have lots of ideas, most of which will likely turn out to be bad ones; but fortunately the program builds in a little bit of time (about a year) to read, learn, and come up with a study design that stands a good chance of working.

For now, here I am. I know that very soon I’ll be engaged in a tremendously difficult long-term endeavor, much more difficult than getting into grad school in the first place. And I can’t wait to get started. But this week I’m mainly working on trying to memorize the nomenclature of ethers, epoxides, and thioethers. I’m studying for an exam about leaf energy budgets, plant water relations, and ecosystem modeling. And I’m collecting more things I know I don’t know with every paper I read.

It doesn’t feel like molting, or like migrating. It feels, besides terrifying, quite right. We’ll see.

Not FMNH 472922.

How to Cheer Your Future Self Up: A Simple 4-Step Plan

I was feeling a little rough this Tuesday afternoon. There was no real excuse for this, or at least none that I’m quite willing to accept. Classes have been going well.* I’ve never felt more secure in my goals. And Tuesday was a gorgeous December day in Seattle, crisp as a ripe Braeburn. I was staring straight at the snowy sides of Rainier above the skyline, in fact, when my feelings were at their roughest. Frankly, it takes a special kind of absorption to be unhappy while one is looking at a peak that magnificent. I won’t bore you with the specifics; I admit this embarrassing evidence of my own humanity only to tell you that a few hours later a delightful thing happened that cheered me right up. And in case any of you have reason to anticipate that at some point in the future you too will be feeling a little rough in spite of mountains, I present the following simple instructions for a remedy.

• Step 1: Skin approximately 400 bird specimens for The Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago.
• Step 2: Wait a few years before feeling a little rough.
• Step 3: Discover that FMNH 472922—a flycatcher specimen you were responsible for prepping—helped confirm the usefulness of a novel field mark, added one new species to the list of birds whose presence has been recorded in Illinois, and enjoyed a star turn in a recent taxonomic paper by a team of ornithologists from the University of New Mexico.
• Step 4: Delight!

If you’re interested in the details of this story (you should be!) I’ll point you toward two posts by Field Museum researcher Josh Engel. Here’s Josh’s introduction to the specific flycatchers the field mark distinguishes between, and here’s his follow-up, which includes a great set of photos and points out a marvelous recent coincidence that will explain the origin of the specimen you see below.

Not FMNH 472922.

Not FMNH 472922.

I should note that Josh is terrific, and well worth following in general. He writes about odd museum-y discoveries and active scientific efforts with equal pleasure and knowledgeability. I can’t seem to find a unique address for his writing that’s more specific than the one for the Field Museum’s general blog, but this link will tell you more about Josh and point you to what he’s published most recently.

I realize, of course, that if I hadn’t prepped FMNH 472922, someone else would have—and quite possibly they’d have done a better job of it. But it’s still pretty exciting to have a first-hand proof of the mantra everyone who’s involved in a natural history collection knows: You can never predict how, or when, something will come in useful. Every specimen has the potential to one day contribute to our understanding of the world. As does every human being, no matter how sorry for herself she might occasionally feel.

* It’s taken a while, but I’m finally competent at predicting the courses of substitution and elimination reactions of alkanes! Miracle of miracles, as the tailor sang.

Jen with one of the Conservation Canines. I stole this picture from the project page. Apologies that I don't know who to credit for it!

Dogs, Cats, and Scats: Saving Jaguars, One Poop at a Time

One of my favorite leisure activities is looking at other animals’ poop. If you’re reading this, you’re probably the kind of person who can relate. I have a collection of photos on my phone that I’ve taken while hiking—everything from the irresistibly hairy gray dreadlocks produced by coyotes (which I happily handle) to the compact tourmaline pellets of elk and moose and the enormous spreading mounds of bear sign, great brown skies constellated by the bright remains of berries. Someday, in the fullness of time, I will realize my dream of buying the domain name www.shitisaw.com and building there a grand compendium of crap.

In the meantime, I’d like to direct your attention to a particular piece of scatological science that you can support at this very moment. It’s a project run by University of Washington wildlife ecology PhD student Jennifer Mae-White Day, who’s crowdfunding the final year of her dissertation research. I’ve posted this several times in a couple of places, so apologies for the repetition; but I can’t overstate how worthy I think this project is of your support. Here’s why:

Jen’s work relies on trained detection dogs which help her search for jaguar scat. Her research site is located in a remote, rugged habitat in Southern Mexico where other techniques for studying these elusive animals would be extremely difficult. (Aside: Did you know that Darwin was fascinated by jaguars and continually tried to find them while on his excursions in the Americas? You would if you followed him on Twitter. He’s a great one for Twitter.) Anyway, scat surveys are a totally noninvasive means (they don’t involve trapping or otherwise stressing the species of interest) of collecting information about animal movements, diversity, and health. Poop contains both nuclear and mitochondrial DNA, so it can be used to identify individual jaguars and build a picture of genetic diversity within the population. It also contains hormones and absorbed toxins, which means Jen can quantify the psychological and nutritional stresses the jaguar population is under. And by tracking the locations where scat is found, she can figure out which landscape features, particularly those affected by human activity, attract or repel jaguars (hugely important to deciding where to target conservation)—as well as how genes flow between populations.

In short, this is very good basic science AND it’s highly applicable to our immediate efforts to preserve both the vanishing jaguar population and the ecosystems where they play a vital role as top predators. PLUS, it supports the work of Conservation Canines in general—so apart from anything else, you’ll be helping to save the lives of rescue dogs and give them purposeful work.

Jen with one of the Conservation Canines. I stole this picture from the project page. Apologies that I don't know who to credit for it!

Jen with one of the Conservation Canines. I stole this picture from the project page. Apologies that I don’t know who to credit for it!

That’s my pitch about the value of this research. My other pitch is about how much I think Jen, specifically, deserves your support. First of all, she’s very experienced with this type of research; she’s been working on projects involving large carnivores, tropical habitats, and scat surveys for many years, so she knows exactly what she’s doing and any funding she receives is going to be efficiently used. Secondly, I know her because she TAs my ecology class at UW, and she happens to be incredibly good at that. She leads our lab sessions with great enthusiasm, knowledgeability, and finesse, and I’ve learned a lot from her explanations.

Finally, Jen is a fantastic person as well as a determined scientist. A few weeks ago I made an appointment with her to talk about my grad school plans, and she sat with me for nearly two hours in the middle of what was an incredibly demanding week for her. At the end of it I felt like I had gotten an enormous education in approaching the application and decision processes, as well as sharp insight into how to thrive as a grad student. I was also moved by Jen’s generosity and kindness. If you’re reading this and you don’t happen to be the kind of person who likes looking at poop, then you’re probably a person who knows and loves me, and wants to support my future success. I can tell you that meeting Jen has directly contributed to my chances of achieving that success. So even if you couldn’t care less about jaguars or dogs or conservation, if you care about me, that’s a pretty good reason to support her.

I’m pushing this so hard because the Experiment.com model, like Kickstarter’s, only funds projects if they reach the goals they’ve set—so if Jen doesn’t get to $10,000 in the next 9 days, she’ll lose everything she has raised so far. I think that would be a tremendous shame. One last thing: Even if you can only spare a small amount in support, your modest backing will go twice as far, because every new donation from now on will be matched dollar for dollar till the end of the funding period.

Please consider making a contribution. If you do, and we’re ever in the same city at the same time, ping me and I’ll buy you a drink. Then we’ll toast to good science and good people and good old fashioned poop.

LINK TO THE PROJECT PAGE WHERE YOU CAN DONATE

LINK TO POSTS JEN HAS MADE ABOUT SCAT SURVEYS

JEN ON TWITTER

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On Living Without Windows

If I look to my left as I type at this moment, I see the whispering canopy of a European white birch some 40 feet tall, its branches dangling boas of diamond-shaped, tooth-edged leaves. I see the straight line of a utility cable weaving through the crazy puzzle of the tree’s profile. I see the nose of a silver sedan parked on the street below, and if I crane my neck to look over my shoulder I can see another birch, another cable, and a clutch of houses rising on the curve of Phinney Ridge, the neighborhood northwest of the one where I live. I see these things through the nearly full-length windows I am lucky to have lining the wall by my desk.

These are my windows; they are part of my apartment. It is simple enough to say, as you do: This is my view.

On Thursday morning Ross and I woke in the half-dark and drove two about and a half hours north of Seattle, picking up our friend Susie along the way. The goal for the day was to hike to a place called Hidden Lake Lookout, which lies just over the border between Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest and North Cascades National Park. Susie had hiked this route before, several years ago, and had in general sung the praises of the landscape through which it climbs—a part of the Cascade mountain range that Ross and I had not yet visited.

Nothing about the hike disappointed. The vegetation was everywhere riotous and everywhere changing; as we moved from forest to open cliffside, the dappled ferns and mosses fell away and we started seeing spikes of fireweed, starry asters, lupine, mountain ash, paintbrush and false hellebore. At times the giant, hairy fans of cow parsnip—cousins of the hundkex (“dog biscuit”) I encountered in Sweden—nearly pushed us off the path. And after Susie pointed out the ripe wild blueberries that lined the trail, every new patch became an excuse to pause and pluck a half dozen tiny bright beads, tart as anything and more satisfying than water.

We saw and heard pika as the terrain got rockier (each call like a fraction of a red-breasted nuthatch). Four white-tailed ptarmigan, brown summer plumage fading sooner than I would have thought into winter white, stood clucking softly on a steep outcrop near the top, as high as snowfields. Near the top of everything, the first glimpse of Hidden Lake appeared like a crazy mirage shining low in the throat of the mountains around it, and here there were ravens. Always ravens in high places.

This is Hidden Lake, no longer quite so hidden.

But windows are my subject today.

Ross and I left Susie napping on a boulder in the sun and half-hiked, half-scrambled up another few hundred feet to the top of a narrow peak above. The views here, if possible, were even more expansive. We could see, though we could not have named all of these mountains at the time, Mount Shuksan. Big Devil Peak. Eldorado. Mount Baker. Johannesburg. Mount Sahale. Boston Peak. Mount Forbidden. Glacier Peak. The sky was close enough to touch and nothing for miles around, it seemed, was hidden from us—except perhaps the place where we had started from that morning, down below the shadows of the trees.

We found a place to stand, to twirl around and take it in. And then we turned our attention to the structure that gives the trail its name: a wildfire lookout built in 1932, decommissioned a few decades later, and currently maintained as a first-come, first-served camping shelter.

The Lookout.

Five or six other parties were at the top when we arrived, including a pair of young backpackers who had been lucky enough, they told us, to nab the space just as its previous occupants were leaving. The couple had arranged their sleeping bags and foodstuffs in the lookout, a little wooden cabin tethered to the rocks at very nearly 7,000 feet, and were now sitting just outside it. Ross, before me, hesitated on the doorstep. The lookout was, of course, public property—but even at that height, a certain canon of possession held.

“Go on in,” the couple said, with jovial magnanimity (a relief to me, since a trip report I had read about this hike made mention of a party that had commandeered the house and tried to prevent day hikers from entering the lookout even for a peek). “Go take a look!”

And so we did. And as we entered, both of us—entirely involuntarily—gasped. “Oh, my god.” Here’s what we saw:

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I’m not sure if these pictures made you gasp, too. It’s hard for me to know how I would feel about them if I didn’t have in my mind the memory of what it was like to step over that small threshold onto clean, peeling floorboards, thinking of nothing in particular except the sun and the air, feeling only a mild curiosity about what the inside of a fire lookout might be like, and to all of a sudden see that view, through those windows. It was quite genuinely breathtaking.

Not that the view outside the lookout’s walls had been less breathtaking—at least, it made no sense for that to be the case. By definition, what you could see through the windows was circumscribed and what you could see outside was not. Nothing ought to have been more spectacular than the 360 degree panorama we had beheld from the exterior, turning on our heels and back again until we all but lost our balance. A few pieces of wood and glass ought not to have improved on our eyes’ best evidence.

And yet, as soon as you walked through that doorway something made you gasp. It happened in exactly the same way to the people who stepped in as we stepped out—a stopping in their tracks, a sharp inhalation. “Oh, my god,” a woman said.

Reemerging from the lookout I was slightly irritated by the extra awe I’d felt on entering the structure. It took me a while to understand. At first I thought it must be something about the way the windows framed the mountains; perhaps they gave the overwhelming beauty of the scene some shape, I speculated. Perhaps they somehow emphasized the vastness of the landscape by placing onto it a sense of human scale, making the peaks seem even bigger and more majestic than they already were.

There may be something in that, but now I think the simpler, more direct, and more frustrating explanation is that windows make us feel as if we own what we see through them. And what a possession this would be! Everyone who stepped into the lookout that day, I think, immediately entertained a fantasy of moving into that irresistibly charming wooden cabin—of making it their home. That table, theirs. That bare bed, theirs. And that sublime, extraordinary view: theirs.

I often wish, spoiled as I am by having grown to love the outdoors through fieldwork at sites that were very nearly empty of other human beings, to be more alone when I hike. I grumble, quite unjustifiably, about having to share the trail with people who love wild places just as much as I do. This selfish impulse, I know, is another thing I share with many of those same people. I wouldn’t try to change it—solitude is precious, and we all deserve to seek it. But I would like to let go of the hunger to see the view through those windows, and of the silly, seductive sense that a place like that lookout was somehow the best possible vantage point from which to pass a night in the North Cascades.

I don’t want to want to own the mountains.

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(But I do kind of want to be in that lookout during a lightning storm. Wouldn't you?)

(But I do kind of want to be in that lookout during a lightning storm. Wouldn’t you?)