The hills are alive

Today we rode through Franklin Basin, even though it’s not Sunday.  The meadows were astonishing – wildflowers everywhere.  I closed my eyes and imagined that this is where I actually married Tim, with bare feet and a bouquet of asters, bluebells, paintbrush, and sage.

The road through the basin goes on for miles and miles, connecting many other mountain paths. 

Our chariot:

Squiggles may look like she was only interested in her donut, but she giggled and said, “Oh!” every five seconds.  She loved it.  I let her ride on my lap up front (shhhh… don’t tell) since we were the only vehicle on the road and traveling slowly so that I could savor the deliciousness of the scented summer air.  I like to call this look, “Just stepped out of a jeep.”

The tour guides (today and on a thousand finity Sundays past):

We walked around, and pondered our smallness in the universe (or maybe she wanted another donut):

Grandpa and Squiggles found a raging river – luckily there was a bridge for safe crossing.

They crossed it approximately seventy to eighty times.  Grandpa is good like that.  He even let her dip her toes in, which is why her shoes are now drenched.

Then they threw rocks in the river. 

She enjoyed the freedom.

Squiggles let out a joyous, “Oh!   Baaaaaaa!” and giggled uncontrollably when we encountered this road block:

There were thousands of sheep in this particular meadow.  My dad said the locals call them mountain maggots, but I enjoyed the pastoral-ness of it all.

Mostly I enjoyed the flowers.  I like flowers.

The whole ride, I kept thinking, “I wish Tim could see this.”  I miss you <sniff>.