Mr Boombah Takes Aim

So there we were, surveying a ridgeline. We'd been trekking for what seemed like days, but no-one in the party could recall for sure. One of the league members had torn an anterior crucia ligament, so the rest of us had been taking turns at supporting him to the top. The dark was rolling in fast as we crested the hill. Rushing in towards the party, in competition with our ailing spirits. I could sense that hope among the party was flagging. We sat, sweating, the steam rising as if from a pack of spent race-horses. Then we saw it. The rare, rufous mountain deer. It wandered to the front of the coppice in front of us, looked to the east, paused to graze on a willow, and then was gone. Bill managed one fleeting shot while it was in range. All the league held its breath, hoping his quick shutter click had captured the magical creature. There hadn't been a mountain deer sighted in this region for 41 years.

Fog covered the city this morning. A damp grey gauze that reduced the world to a couple of feet outside the window. Fog like that gets into your bones. My leg ached. It reminded me of our long march out of the highlands in '93, every muscle screaming to rest. A story for next time.

A short, blood-red exit in flurry of tooth and claw. The new was-to-be neighbour met her maker last week. If I had known her I may have given counsel to screw your courage to the sticking place, young lass. But it turned out to be an undignified end and ultimately stuck in place. With age I have become more content with knowing less of other people's lives. Lives that are often short. Short, and without reason.

On the move again. Time to start a log towards the end of a life.