BOUMALNE DU DADES

Early this morning one albino cake shimmered suspiciously in the haze.

Chugging Clamato and crunching great handfuls of poisonous snails for strength, we stieg da ab to the crenellated golden parapet when we suddenly realized we were tiny and on a Faberge egg.

That was OK.

We carried Scottish deerhounds in thimbles. They barked tiny, robin’s egg blue swirls in the thin white air.

We dodged great floating icebergs of oxygen during our descent to the Boumalne du Dades and thence into the gorge itself to our home in Oregon.

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