The Afghans returned, though in substantially lesser numbers, throughout the holiday weekend, but on Labor Day they crossed the line: on the other side of the river two men attempted to transport a burning brazier—a rectangular barbecue tray measuring approximately thirty by fourteen inches—at shoulder height through (not under) a stand of young ponderosa pines preparatory to conducting a feast on Forest Service land, where any sort of open fire is prohibited (at least in this particular tract) outside any designated camping or picnic area. The fucking flames from this thing were visible from the other side of the river. Northern California happens to be tinder-dry after a prolonged drought, and the sky was already smoky from the massive "Rim Fire" threatening Yosemite National Park 150 miles away. We homegrown male habitués of this stretch of river then rose up as one man and advanced on the intruders, shouting and gesticulating (think of the protohuman threat displays in Kubrick's 2001, only with hairless and considerably paunchier primates screeching and brandishing improvised weapons). They seemed quite puzzled—someone suggested afterward that perhaps Afghanistan is now sufficiently deforested that this sort of conduct is not deemed a hazard back home—and also initially disposed to contest the issue, but perhaps the spectacle of half a dozen elderly fat white guys in bathing attire descending upon them was too weird for them to process, and they retreated to conduct their picnic under the bridge, still illegally but no longer as certain to burn down the entire Alder Creek tract.

I repeat: These clowns were attempting to transport an open fire at shoulder height through pine trees, between their lower and upper branches. Fuck. Me.

cordially,