There was an astounding storm that ripped off chunks of the roof, flooded the garden, and cooled us off, but the ground was still hard and cracked.  Relief from the dusty oppresiveness was not easily found in June.

We went to the mountains in a car loaded with friends, family, food and swimsuits, on dirt-packed roads as wide as a four-lane highway.  The higher up the mountain we went, the roads tapered to mere paths so narrow I instinctively sucked in my gut. Along the way, I marveled at encampments of stream-side yurts and animals crossing the road.

In spite of the metal support beams, the top of the bridge was made of logs, mud and rocks which led to a lengthy discussion from truck drivers about whether to cross (my Kyrgyz isn’t good, but I’m an expert in body langugae) who finally opted to drive through the stream.  

We picnicked and slept with nature’s sleep machine set to ‘Mountain Stream’.  The teens handily built a dam and diverted part of the stream so we could languidly dangle our feet in the coolness.