For mountains to fall on my head. Smoky, misty mountains with a hatred and a vengeance for prairie folk. Stupid mountains.
But it’s *really nice* here. Like, there’s *sun* and it’s more than 22 degrees, and there’s no wind, and and and and no frost, and stuff is *growing* because it’s *hot*…so…well…I’m conflicted. It’s *summer* here. I suspect what it is is this – I suspect it’s some kind of lure the mountains are using to lull us in to the nest of the Mountain’s evil.
Then, when we least expect it, after we’re all lethargic and flooby from eating all of Gramma’s awesome food and drinking rum and lying out in the sun all day, **BOOM**!! the mountains are on your head.
And there’s no *helmet* you can wear to save your delicate, delicate brain from a MOUNTAIN FALLING ON YOUR HEAD. I mean, sure, you can survive a direct plummet from a tree, but you can’t just walk away from a direct hit from a mountain. It’s just not possible. Ask those folks in Pompeii.
Okay, yes, technically, Pompeii was a volcano, not a mountain, but the end result was that a mountain fell on their heads after it ‘sploded out of a volcano. Thankfully, there aren’t a *whole* lot of active volcanoes in the Rockies. That I know about.
More DECEPTION! More LURING! There ought to be a law.