Cyr nurtures, a profound, even obsessive, admiration for any fish that would inhale a splashing Poodle as readily as a rainbow trout rises to a dry fly.
After two and a half centuries, the coffins might contain a few bones or scraps of cloth. Excavating around the leather soles I see the blackened bones of a foot and beyond that a slender tibia. Staring at these relics of Kamchatka’s violent history, it occurs to me that desecrating any grave, much less a leper’s grave is a bad business and I quickly stand, brush my hands off and wade back into the river.
“……there was a great glacier run,” Hemingway wrote. “forever straight if our legs could hold it, our ankles locked, we running so low, leaning into the speed, dropping forever and forever in the silent hiss of the crisp powder. It was better than anything else.”