RUNNING: Upstream from where the Snake River flows beneath Snake River Road, the water splits into two channels divided by a wide island. Despite our paddling, laughing and “oh no!” ing, the raft loaded with women and children didn’t escape the currents carrying us into the wrong channel. We waved goodbye to the dory filled with men and fishing poles. They’d arranged to continue downstream until dark and would pullout near their pick-up vehicle many miles away. With our pick-up vehicle waiting along the other channel—not an easy stroll with toddlers, we fought the currents and pulled ashore. My niece and I climbed up to the bridge and jogged along the road to get her SUV.
I hadn’t run that day—I’d driven hundreds of miles, scoured a mountainside for huckleberries and floated a gorgeous river where eagles soared and the kids called mild whitewater sections rumble-ettes. Our jog was nothing for my niece—a tall, mountain-climbing, energy-packed, fast-running, lean machine. For me, it was a major sprint. Pride forced me to keep up—and she was too sweet to abandon me.
I treasure that side-aching, breath-gasping moment running with a pro under tangerine clouds with great blue herons lifting heavenward. It was a killer, but perfect.
WRITING: Susan Duffy, one of my college professors, had a favorite word: succinct. She never lectured without it, drilling it into our heads. I was her star rambler—a potent challenge. She attacked my papers in red with one word: succinct. I had nightmares about that clippy demand and reformed.
Short jogs are exhilarating. Writing with the fewest words possible is vital. Cut repetition, choose great description, delete detritus. Don’t pile words on words. Say it clearly, quickly, and with style. The end.
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