(15) expecting to see a bear, wolf, or other reason for their flight. Seeing no animal, I wonder if they're just running to run, something I rarely do. At home, I'm so busy trying to keep up with my own expectations I'm always running towards something or from something. Here in Yosemite, there is no such pull. Clutched in the palm of these granite cathedrals, I'm in awe, a lithe lupine warming to the sun. (20) Perhaps this is why dirt in the wilderness never bothers me. I don't need to control it or mop it away. It's not my dirt or my husband's dirt to clean, but the soil for ponderosas, sequoias and tufts of mountain grass. It belongs here'crunching beneath my boots, lining valleys between glacial peaks. Yosemite's dirt doesn't hover behind windows or wait in painted corners to be swept into a plastic bag. It is the ground beneath me. (25) I pick up a handful of pine needle-saturated soil and imagine hurling it across my living room rug. How much dirt would it take to make my house a home? Could I carry this same mountain peace back to my rectangular plot of driveway and lawn cut into a grid of streets? Sifting soil through my fingers, I'm suddenly confused by the shiny black and white linoleum we installed in our kitchen floor. How did I get so far from this place? (30) I've spent too many years identifying comfort with the mattress on my bed and the The narrator's comments about her own expectations in lines 16 and 17 illustrate that she performs dangerous tasks O feels pressured O dislikes her job craves attention