A long, hard hike this week, way up a twisty canyon. The fog drifting, great chunks of it forming and re-forming, the sun fighting, vanishing. No way to know what kind of day it's going to be. And then that sound, that treble purr, pitched too high for its size but unmistakable. Where? Oh, there, above a ridge, soft-focus in the mist, the Goodyear blimp, all the way from Carson.