Scratching my head
over an open book;
a dead spider falls onto the page.
A quick Saturday night on the East Fork with my son. Temps are dropping, the leaves are changing, and food cooked under the stars still tastes just as good.
Afternoon light, breezes stirring.
The warmest winter hat we currently own; the family has been fighting over who gets it. We'll have a matching set soon...You're either a Comrade or an Enemy of the People.
I've always been impressed with how relaxed he is when we backpack. I once told him: "I'm glad you like doing this with me." "Why wouldn't I like doing this?" he replied. "Some people think it's boring, that it's just sitting and doing nothing." He motioned to the wind in the branches above..."It's not doing nothing, Dad. We're looking and listening."
Why anyone would carry dehydrated food on an overnight trip is beyond me.
Kickin' it Old School. Dungeons and Dragons with Dad the Dungeon Master by headlamp in the woods.
Hmmm...Do I go with the Dwarven Urgosh or the Great Axe?
Ice has formed in still pools beside the river come morning, we sip tea and coffee together from the comforts of our shelter, bags draped over our shoulders. Once again, it was just what we needed, just in time. I can’t get enough; a feeling spreads, a sensation approaching knowledge that this is the way it’s supposed be, that the rest is somehow illusion.