Thunderstorms rolled in this morning, one or more from each of the four directions, and the smell of wet creosote was thick on the wind.

I decided to go get my mail. This involves about a forty=mile round trip. My mail tends to pile up in the box as a result. Heading down Nipton Road toward the dry lake I got a better view of the storms, one astride Kessler Peak and another stuck atop the New York Mountains near Caruthers Canyon. A particularly dark patch of storm covered the small canyon where Ivanpah Road heads through the New Yorks into the Lanfair Valley. “I need to see a flash flood today,” I thought to myself, and missed my turn onto Morning Star Mine Road in favor of heading into the storm.

At the little railroad-siding ghost town of Ivanpah — not the one for which the valley was named; that would be the other ghost town of Ivanpah, near Yates Well — the road bent leftward to follow the tracks for a few hundred yards, and then curved back toward the mountains again.

It was just after that second, blind curve that I ran over the tortoise.

I was doing about forty, I guess, and didn’t see him in the road until it was too late to stop. It didn’t exactly dart out in front of me. I was probably a bit distracted by watching sky. But I cursed, and I swerved and held my breath.

I felt no thump as Jeep went over turkle.

I pulled off the road and ran back to see what the hell I’d done, awkwardly walking across a wet cattle guard in my Tevas. Tortoise seemed uninjured: shell intact, no sign of blood or fracture of anything but peevishness.

The rain started to come down fairly hard. I crossed the cattle guard again and ran back to put the camera back in the Jeep, and then ran back to the catle guard, crossed it yet again, and started speaking softly to the Tort. He was not happy with me. I hefted him gently anyway, put him on the side of road for which he’d been headed when I ran him over. Crossed the cattle guard again, ran back to the Jeep, got my camera and returned to shoot a photo to reassure myself later that he’d survived my vehicular assault.

He was in no mood to pose.

I turned back around and headed for the Post Office. My mailbox was full. I have credit card bills to pay. My copy of High Country News arrived. There was a check from UCSF.

The whole valley was filled with storm as I drove home. At about 30 miles per hour. It took a while.