According to legend and lore (the ancient predecessors of science), the rising of the Dog Star Sirius shepherds forward a period of mad dogs, heat, drought, misery, fatigue, misfortune, and calamity. No one is safe, not even those who prowl more than forty-seven degrees above the equator. But even if we cannot hide, we sometimes run. Yes, we run like a nine-year-old after the Good Humor truck on a humid Sunday night, though it’s not the boxy notes of the “The Entertainer” that draw us. Instead, a friend says, “Hey, I heard Lost Creek is running cool and fishing well,” and we’re off.
So we drive to the end of the “road,” where we hope Sirius won’t find us, at least for a few hours.
Get lost in the shade of cedar . . .
. . . cradle the quiet coolness of life . . .
. . . release fear and consternation.
Yes, the creek is running cool and fishing well.
