The weather forecast was for  hotter than blazes. It met or exceeded expectations, touching near 100f (38.7c) according to the thermometer app on Mike’s phone.

Anticipating the heat, Mike,  Walter and I headed up to Pistol Creek  to stick our feet in the water.

It was a short walk in; Walter and I took turns hauling the cart with our equipage and provisions. The trail looked unused. It was overgrown and littered with debris, but still passable.

Wild ginger was underfoot. We walked through a stand of lodge pole pine, baking in the hot summer sun. The air was dense with a spicy, resinous perfume.

We took a moment to inspect the longhouse campsite. No one had touched it and most of the poles we had cached  still looked serviceable.

Satisfied with our inspection, we headed for the beach. Easier said than done.  The last section of trail had grown up into a nearly impenetrable salmon berry thicket.  Pushing my way through and dragging the cart was hard work. The berry  bushes were shoulder high with stalks covered in fine thorns. I momentarily regretted my choice to wear short pants.

It was worth the effort when we broke free of the brush to find ourselves at a secluded beach on a remote  mountain stream. The sun shone hot, the water was clear and cold. Overhead the trees swayed in the wind which never made it down to our sheltered shoreline.

We set up our chairs, pulled sandwiches and beer from the cooler, took off our shoes and dangled our feet in the water.

Minnows leapt from  the water, chasing bugs. Butterflies fluttered by. We were pleased by the absence of mosquitoes.  The biting flies were an annoyance,  but a spritz of bug repellent was all it took to keep them at bay.

It was a perfectly  pleasant afternoon, and really, it was too hot to do anything  else.