It is a rare day of sunshine and moderate temperatures after a winter that has been all about record breaking lows and incessant snowstorms.
I am taking Lindsay for her usual run along the beach at the bottom of the bluffs. Getting there involves leaving my car in the parking lot and walking down a long pathway to a point about ten feet above the beach. Then climbing down the remainder of the way on a cascade of large boulders.
At the top of this cascade Lindsay and I meet two pretty women who are standing there looking out over the lake, a couple of duffel bags at their feet.
Lindsay says hello to the delight of the women, but then turns some serious attention to one of the duffel bags.
"She smells the food in there," Laughs the taller of the two.
I call Lindsay away and we scamper down the rocks to the beach.
The clay bluffs are in constant erosion and avalanches are common in the spring. Crashing down with the clay are often large trees that get washed out into the lake where they sink to the bottom awaiting raging storms that wash their bleached carcasses back up onto the beach.
The stripped and gnarled trees often form interesting shapes and further down the beach was a photographer dressed like some refuge from an Indiana Jones movie taking photos of them with a large and complicated looking camera.
We say hello and I laugh and tell him there are a couple of pretty girls back down the beach and he should be photographing them instead. He laughs and says maybe he will.
Lindsay barks and starts chasing some seagulls. I run off after her.
We complete our walk and turn back. When we get to the rocks to climb up from the beach we find the numbers of beautiful women have swollen to ten, three of them sitting in chairs getting their makeup done.
Lindsay is in her glory dancing and prancing among them. The two woman we originally met greet her and proudly introduce her to the rest. Suddenly Lindsay is surrounded by beautiful models all cooing and petting her. She is in her glory, finally getting the attention she always knew she deserved. A beautiful girl at home at last among her kind.
And I suddenly realized the photographer I had met down the beach was THE photographer, out scouting locations for a fashion shoot. The one who told me with a smile that "maybe" he would take a photo or two of the girls. Given the number of models involved he was probably famous, his face known to everyone but me.
As I head up the pathway I pass two male bikers on the way down, their lean bodies held tightly in place by yellow and black spandex.
"Watch out for the herd of models around the bend," I tell them.
They give me a strange look.
They'll learn soon enough.
A Brief Garden Tour
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