Base Camp, Elevation Nine Inches

I set out at dawn, which in my case is a quarter to ten.

The pack weighed more than I do. It held a thermos, a map folded into sixteenths, a spare tie in case of formal occasions on the trail and a smaller sandwich, with whom I have no quarrel.

Base camp was the next rock, and I reached it before lunch. I stood there a while with my walking stick planted and looked up at the summit, by which I mean the second rock. I felt what the great explorers must have felt, which is that it could wait until tomorrow. That's The Grand Expedition.

Halfway across a slope of moss I spotted him, his shell coiled like a cinnamon bun, moving with great purpose and very little speed. I knelt in the clover and raised my binoculars. He was four inches away. In the hour I watched him, he traveled six. Field Research is a true account.

The wind came up in the afternoon. I tested it the old way, one finger raised to the sky. Finding: wind was present. I kept the umbrella closed on principle. The Forecast records the moment.

On the way down I measured a blade of grass, because nobody else was going to, and set out a traffic cone for safety while I worked. It was within regulation height. The full findings are due in spring. Grass Inspection.

These shirts are for people who go outside and come back with a story a little smaller than it sounds: birdwatchers and weekend hikers, and the friend who calls a two-mile loop "a trek." The cotton is garment-dyed, so the shirt looks like it has already been to base camp and back.

W. Marsh, Chair