My brush with furred fame

Leaning on a driftwood log as I sit on the rocks in a small cove of ocean-coloured Lake Minnewanka.  There’s a hell of a breeze and the sun has already dropped below the mountains, so I’m a little cold, barelegged, but I have my hoodie.  There’s a wader minding his own business ankle deep in the water’s edge, and I just got circled twice by a suspicious ground squirrel at close range- plump and bouncy with his racing stripe and black-eyed stare.

The air is strangely polluted by boat-board stereos throbbing terrible music.  Very strange to me that people choose to use their spectacular parks in such a way, or more specifically, to alter everyone else’s experience so heedlessly.

I am puttering around Banff today, going to see my surgeon for my knee post-op tomorrow.  Lake M seemed like a better locale to chill and write than the hostel dorm room; unfortunately, the chill is literal.

The ground squirrel is now standing on his haunches on the rock beside me peering curiously over the top of my macbook screen, nose twitching a mile a minute.  Clearly he reigns over this cove, and hasn’t made up his mind about my intrusion here.

*Ed note:  Coincidentally,  the day after I wrote this, the extraordinary media phenomenon centred on the Minnewanka ground squirrel popping into the Brants’ photo broke, as it was picked for National Geographic’s photo of the day (in case you missed this frenzy).

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