Silence, Part I

We’re on the way to a quiet destination and carrying another one with us. We’re not talking. I don’t remember how it started (“I remember, I think you just pretend not to remember” Maybe I just can’t believe that something so small could’ve set us off like this. “It looks like one small thing, but maybe it’s one more small thing.” Well, I’m glad we’ve gotten past it. “You might still say you’re sorry.” I am sorry, I’ve said it already. You might apologize for your part in it. “You say you, ‘said it already’, but when are you going to mean it?” I do mean it, haven’t I shown that? “Fine” Yeah, fine.), but now it’s become a contest of wills – a dare. Try to see who needs to talk first. Who will break down and break the silence?
We’ve just passed the last of anything like a big town we’d be passing through, and 70 is veering north to keep from dropping us either on Carrot Island or in the water (Carrot Island, that reminds me of the left turn we shoulda took at Albuquerque. “Yeah, yeah, you’re such a rascally rabbit, but I’m not laughing.” Nyah, what’s up doc? “Still not laughing, you might as well keep on driving. We’ve only got about an hour and a half until our reservation.”)
The radio’s no help – it just plays one neutral song after another. The classical station’s playing an opera today, not one I’ve heard before. Hard to believe everyone could have so much to say that they repeatedly burst out into song about it. I can’t think of any of the CD’s in the visor I’d want to play, so I leave the opera on – that dude sounds like he’s having a bad day, I wonder what he’s actually saying.
You start to roll your window up. It is getting hot isn’t it? Or is it just me? Anyway, I put my window up too and click on the A/C. That’s not enough. I’d better turn up the fan too. I reach over to put the center vent on you, but you put your hand up and wave it off. Two vents are enough I guess. A few stray hairs catch the flow and try to blow across your face. I glance over to try and catch your eye as you turn towards me to brush them back into place, but you’re not having it – eyes closed.
After the car’s cooled off, you’ve fallen into a nap in the sun coming in through your side window. In your sleep you draw your arms in close as the hairs rise on them, catching a chill from the vents even there in the morning sun. I better turn the fan back down. Glance further up the road – all clear – gives me an opportunity to stab at my sweatshirt in the back seat. Not quite. Second try: there, got it. Now if I can get it to spread out as I toss it over… Argh, disaster. It’s just bunched up between you and the door: only the sleeve stayed on you. Maybe if I pull carefully enough it will drape back over without waking you. Wow, it’s working. Didn’t really think I could manage it. It’s almost perfect, just a bit more,… when a somnambulant hand grabs the shoulder and wraps it and the hood up close. That sigh of contentment eases my tension a bit. Or was that resignation? Exasperation?
(“You should have trusted your first impression. You usually get it right.”
So how’d I get us in this predicament?
“Maybe sometimes it’s just the something said at the wrong time. Or maybe you create tension out of nothing just to carry a story, like contentment becomes resignation becomes exasperation – I don’t always have to be like that.”
Almost sounds like you might forgive me yet.
“Don’t be stupid; it just hasn’t happened yet. Why don’t you get back to focusing on your driving? This place up ahead looks promising…)
The signs have been showing up in intervals of about every tenth of a mile. Each one shaped like a produce item with a pun in a speech balloon to grab your attention. Corn – ‘Ear’s the place to go’, his smaller buddy is blushing ‘Aw, shucks.’ Watermelon – ‘Water you waiting for?’ Apples – ‘Giving you in-cider information.’ Pears – ‘If you thought one was good, try a pear.’ Onion – ‘You’ll cry if you don’t cut in here.’ Tomato – ‘Everything is the vinest.’ Peach – ‘It’s just peachy here.’ Lettuce – ‘Lettuce fill you up with natural goodness.’ Beets – ‘Beets all the other stands.’ Carrots and Potatoes – ‘We’ve been rooting for you.’ Beans – ‘We’ve bean waiting to serve you.’ Peas – ‘At least stop in to take a pea.’ You spot the final sign first and point to it. It’s shaped like a wine bottle and says, ‘You didn’t think we wrote these sober did you?’
(“Who wrote them?”
Listen, let’s be careful not to disrupt too many of the illusions…
“I just want to know, are these drawn from life, or did you come up with them? Sober?”
Hmm, yeah, that sounds good. Answer A – drawn from life, final answer.
“Still, something seems fishy…”
Nope, no seafood sign for the purposes of this one.)
You reach into the back seat and flip up the lid of the cooler – empty except for the tuna steaks: you weren’t sleeping that soundly. The only other thing we’ve brought is the beer in the trunk. This might be our best chance to get supplies. The entrance is coming up quickly. You look over at me and notice my pretending not to notice. Getting closer. I’m fiddling with the turn signal lever, waiting. A few moments away. You open your mouth and take a breath in, but I’m already slowing down and starting to turn in with a smirk. (Thought you were going to say something there. “You did, did you? Why didn’t you wait for it then?” ‘Cause it’s started to turn into something else and I didn’t want to spoil it. “Still, the smirk was a bit much, don’t you think?” I just thought it was getting funny is all. “Well, I was still mad.” Oh, come on, not entirely. “You’re impossible.”)
The car vibrates and drifts as it moves over the gravel parking lot. I’m heading for a spot close in to the building door, but the wheel turns away to the right, following the sweeping gesture you make with your open palm across the dashboard to indicate the shaded spot opening up under the tree there. (I’ve been meaning to ask you – you ever get any formal training or professional work as a spokesmodel? Well? Oh, I see, I’m back to the silent treatment… “Let’s just say that I know how to be convincing when it matters.” I’ll vouch for that.)
I turn my window the rest of the way down before getting out. You’ve got your hand on the handle of your window, and lean your head forward so’s I can see you raise your eyebrows at me. I wave off your worry with a quick flick. You roll your window down too, but before you get out you pick my notebook up from where I left it on the seat. With a crook of my head and a thumb I ask you to stash it in the back, ‘cause it would be a drag to lose that again. It’s got like three projects in various states of coming into being. (“Really? Let me just peek?...” Come on, put it back, maybe you can look later.) You stash it behind my seat and jump out of the car. I wait for you to come around so we can walk together to the door. Once inside, we split up to consider the possibilities.
Seems like it must’ve been a good year around here. Every bin and bushel is chock-full, and every item looks premier in the locally-grown section. Let’s see what we might make a meal out of. Big salad seems natural. I start to pick up a head of lettuce, when you appear at my side to wave it off, and point me to the leaf lettuce, and to drop some cukes and carrots in the basket. Then you’re off again. Okay, you were right about the lettuce. I know I can pick out tomatoes on my own though. You’re back with celery, and with a get-a-move-on look, tapping at my watch with your nail. 8:45, 75 minutes left. Yeah, don’t want to miss the ferry and have to get in late in the afternoon. I catch your wrist as you withdraw from my watch. You start to step in, but are stopped by my turning your palm up and hand you a tomato to double-check. I place them one by one in your hand, you check them with a squeeze, then drop each into a paper bag that I hold ready. Only one veto: you turn it over to show me the soft spot – yeah, okay – I grab a substitute and offer it – into the bag it goes, and then you push off my arm to head around to the other side of the table. I hold up broccoli and cauliflower, waiting for your nod before putting them in the basket. You turn away to investigate jars on the shelf, so, unable to get your attention, I pick up just a half pint of mushrooms to go with two pints of snap peas. You turn back towards me holding an acorn squash. I shrug and nod, that should be good. You knock on it and listen with a question in your eyes. Don’t look at me, sounds fine I think.
I squat down to organize the basket, and your shoes appear beside me. I look up and check out the two jars in your hand held out in my face: strawberry jam and raspberry-apple butter. I purse my lips and glance up apologetically – those look good, but I forgot to bring any bread. Your other hand comes from behind your back with two bagged loaves of bread. I guess they have baked goods here? You point to the counter under the shelf. Oh yeah, well then, they’ve gotta have… You’ve got a basket now, and you tip it forward to show me the pumpkin bread; yes!
We circle the next table, to the table full of apple bushels. We’re at opposite sides of the table. You hold two up. They look good; I shrug why not? You draw your arm back with mischief in your eye. I look at your face, then back at your arm, then back to your eyes, and let out a grin, and you throw. I’m just able to stab that one out of the air when you throw the other to my other side. I drop the first into the basket as I reach across it to grab the second. You’re trying to stifle your laughter, but it sneaks through as little puffs out your nose. Well, if you want to play, maybe you’d like a pear – I lead you with it, and you leave your basket on the table for the full arms’ reach catch. You straighten up, pretend to spike it, and go into your touchdown dance. Okay then, I’ll lead you with the next one too – one handed fingertip grab, then, nothing. I put my hands on my hips and pout about the lack of dancing. You pick up two Ambrosia apples next and toss the first one high up. I short-arm it at the peak of it’s arc with an expression of anxiety on my face as I flail that one arm overhead, taking a half step back – and you hear the slap of an apple landing, and I wait a beat before showing it in the hand from behind my back (“No way, in a million years, did you really think you were gonna catch that.” I almost didn’t, it hit my hand before I expected and I mostly trapped it against my back. “Bet you couldn’t do that again.” Well, we don’t have to find out, ‘cause you have a different idea…). You were fooled for a second, but squint at me with an ‘Oh Yeah’ look in your eyes. I shoot an ‘I dare you’ look back at you, accenting it with the eyebrow. You wind up and let it loose, flying far over my head. I turn, almost plowing into the table behind me, side-step, accelerate, big step, bigger step, leap, reach,… and catch it right under the nose of another customer. I look at them sheepishly, then turn and show you the apple triumphantly (“You didn’t do your touchdown dance. I really got cheated.” I already made a spectacle of myself with the catch, I didn’t want to then make a nuisance of myself. “Always Mr. Respectable – nobody was even looking: the kid at the register’s too busy listening to his earphones. You coulda done a little dance for me.” Maybe I don’t know how to do a little dance.).
Approaching the register, you remind me – touching the side of your finger to your lips. I nod in agreement. The kid at the register seems well suited to playing the game with us, like he already knows it. He doesn’t even make eye contact as he wordlessly rings us up, then holds his palm out for the total. Wow, that’s more than I thought. I open my wallet, empty it, start counting the ones,… close, I wonder how much change I’ve got… I’m reaching into my pocket for it when you step in front of me and snap a twenty in my face. Oh, great – I hand you what I’ve got, and you hand the bills to the kid. He drops the change on the counter for you to pick up. I pick up the boxes and as I turn away from the register I flash my eyes at you with a quick glance back towards the kid. You bring a hand to your mouth just in time to stop the laugh from coming out.
You hurry ahead to get the door for me, and I tip my head down as a thank you. At the car, I put the boxes down on the trunk and turn to you with my arms down, palms forward, repentant look on my face. I take a deep breath in, weighing my words. You step in quickly to put your hand over my mouth, shaking your head. When you take your hand away, there’s a smile on my mouth that is mirrored by yours as both grow into grins.
I remember meeting you at the Metro: the random man there, yelling things at passers by, he receiving no response and needing none. He teaches us how easily spoken words can lose their value, how volume and quantity alone can’t make understanding, how they are perhaps irrelevant to understanding, that at times the words only make explicit an understanding that preceded them. Right as I get to that thought, you touch my forearm, bringing my eyes into present focus to see you nod to me and wink. I knew you’d understand (“Wait, did we talk about that?” Talk about what? “Words. The value of words.” No, we’re not talking about anything. “I was just saying something like that today.” Of course, that’s how it is with us, snappy.).
I disappear into the trunk, shifting some things around to fit the boxes in. I’ve just about got it worked out when your cell phone rings. You reach into your purse and fish around for it with your hand, after the third ring you stop it without looking. I look up at you and you shrug with a tip of your head to the side. Reaching up to close the trunk sets off an involuntary stretch and yawn from me which I use as cover to rub my eyes and forehead and grab at the base of my head (“Don’t you ever sleep?” I’m an adherent to the W. Zevon school of thought related to that – there’ll be time later. “I think it might be time now.” In a bit, let me finish this, it’s only going to keep me up anyway. “Well you should at least try to catch a nap.” Alright, can you help me out with that? “I’ll think of something…”). You’re leaning against my door when I get there (“Your door? You might want to rethink that.” Oh, okay, thanks). You’re leaning against the driver’s side door when I get there, and don’t move except to hold your hand out. I’m puzzled, but you clarify by mimicking the stretch/yawn I just had, then holding your hand out again. I nod, give you the keys, and walk around to the other side to get in. I take my sweatshirt off the seat and pull it on, pulling the hood down over my eyes as I sit. Your hand reaches in to pull the left side back far enough to peek in and see me. I give you a sleepy half-lidded look and smile and a long sigh, and you tug the hood back down over my eyes. I leave it down and point in the direction we should be going as you start the car and put it into gear. (Make sure you head North on 12 right before you get to Sealevel. “I know how to get there, this was my idea remember?” Right, but still, make sure you… “Hush, you’re supposed to be asleep now.” Oh, okay then…) By the time we’re out of the lot, I’ve fallen asleep...

The Forest

Nel nezzo del cammin di nostra vita
Mi ritrovai per una selve oscura
Ché la diritta via era smarrita…

In the middle of the journey of our life
I found myself in a dark wood
For I had lost the right path…

“Where are you going? I don’t think this is even a road. You’re going to make me spill my coffee on myself.”
Just wait, I’m pretty sure this is right.
“I knew letting you drive could be a mistake. Doesn’t this seem a bit reckless?”
It is a good thing we’re in the truck rather than the cavalier – just a bit further on, then I’ll stop.
“Stop where? There’s nothing here, unless you count dead ends.”
Sorry, I know I could’ve given you more warning, but just go along with it and see if we don’t end up alright. Try to trust me?
The moment is longer than I could be comfortable with, as you look at me, then look out the window, then finally back to me. Your face is unreadable, and no matter how I try to listen I can’t hear, for those seconds, what you’re thinking.
(“You can write it like that, but you shouldn’t do that to yourself. You know it wouldn’t be like that – I mean, we’re already in the car. I did get in the car on purpose.”
I know, hang in there for a moment while I work through the awkwardness. There has to be some awkwardness, even in our pen and paper world.
“Just don’t try to make me hurt you with it – that’s not what I’d do.”
I know, that and not picking your nose – anything else you want to avoid?
“I’ll keep you informed.”
If I overstep, feel free to retaliate.
“Could we get back now please?”)
“Yes, I trust you, but do you know why we’re here?”
You mean as a species? individually? or here as opposed to earlier or later in time?
“That’s been enough time driving: there’s something making you weird.”
Anxious I think you mean, ever since you brought it up I’ve been anxious about long car rides with you, knowing it accentuates your inner critic.
“Not with you, so long as you’re careful about the whistling.”
I’ve been trying to catch myself, I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.
“And I’ve been noticing you catching yourself and wishing you’d feel more comfortable about it.”
Okay, deal.
“So that brings us back to: why did you pull off the road here?”
Well, we weren’t going anywhere near the coast, but I thought this might be similar enough to substitute.
“Why? What’s supposed to happen again?”
No, no, I’m sorry, no – you’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.
(You might consider some of your own good advice.
“What do you mean?”
About a page and a half ago, when you asked/said: ‘You shouldn’t do that to yourself. You know it wouldn’t be like that.’ By now you’d think one of us would have enough understanding of the both of us to trust the other’s feelings.
“Yeah, well, I do most of the time, but you’re the one with the pen.”
You know as well as I do that holding the pen, while it provides the illusion of control usually undermines the confidence.
“Maybe with people in general, but not for you with me it shouldn’t.”I’ll hang on to that, maybe by the end of this one my heart’ll understand.)
Come on to the back and help me unload and it’ll all become clear.
“A tent? Is that what that is? How’d you sneak that and this backpack in here without me noticing?” [wink]
I thought for sure you had noticed. Wait, what’s this backpack?
“That’s the one the wink was for – you’re not the only one with surprises. Something tipped me off that you might be planning something, and I wanted to play along.”
Ahh, you’re a sly one.
“I do what I can.”
We strap our packs on, lace and tie our boots carefully, and double check that the truck is locked. (“And the windows are all the way closed – I’m not gonna let that happen again.”)
Better make sure we take jackets and hats with us (I for sure am gonna need one in the morning).
“So, what’s the plan?”
Well, I just thought we’d head right in and see what we could see. When we found the right spot, set up camp and tape over another old rough spot.
“You,…”
What?
“Nothing, never mind.”
I take a breath as if to say something, but peer and smile at you instead. One last tug on the strap of my pack, run through the mental checklist, and we’re off, turning away from the road to head into the trees.
Away from the road It’s cool, moist and piney – in contrast to the warm front seat with it’s aura of coffee and cigarettes.
(“You smoked in my truck? Did I say I would let you smoke in my truck?”
Let me? You helped – thanks by the way, I’ll get the next pack, though it’s probably outta my system for a long time now. Not only does it go well with a long drive and coffee, I also needed something to fight the tendency I have to whistle and gum doesn’t always do that.
“I like your whistling, so long as you hit the right notes like you do, and I don’t have to worry about getting a gum smell out of the truck.”
I hit more right notes with you, and don’t worry about the truck, we’ve got enough driving to do that it’ll have a chance to air out.)
There’s no true path down away from the truck, but we try to find our way through the branches and brush further into the trees. More than once, what looks like an easy path turns out to be a dead end. Once, as we try to push on through some briars, your sleeve gets caught. I work my way over to you to help out. I manage to get you untangled and unscratched, but one particularly stiff branch releases sharply and catches me on the cheek. We slow down and take turns holding them aside as we let each other through.
(“Wait a minute – are you okay? Aren’t you going to do something about that?”
What? It’s just a little scratch, it stings a bit is all.
“Well, it’s bleeding. Put the pen down a second and lean over here so I can take care of that… here, hold this on tightly… now let me see it again… okay, it’s stopped.”
Thanks.
“Sure, anytime, now try to be more careful.”)
Within minutes, we’ve lost sight of the road. The spaces are starting to open up ahead of us, and it’s getting easier to move. The downhill slope is getting steeper and more uncertain in footing. Old leaves and fallen twigs shift and slide over the underlying stones and roots. You take the lead, trying to keep to mossy paths where it’s softer and less slippery. I keep closer on the steeper descents, where I can be near enough to put a hand on your backpack and grab hold to keep you up when you slip. After the third time, you turn to look at me with a slight smile. I wait, but you say nothing.
I’ll let you choose the path, and I’ll let you slip, but I won’t let you fall.
“I know, but I don’t always know when you’re there to catch me.”
Well, if you look for me, you’ll find I’m there with you.
“You should remember to look too – you’re not alone either.”
A stream appears through the trees – we’ve reached the lowest point of our descent as we decide to turn and follow it upstream. The trees on either side overhang the stream and keep it shaded. We take our time picking our way along, hopscotching along the creek rocks from sandbar to bank and back. There’s a gradual upslope punctuated by occasional small falls requiring a scramble up the exposed rock on the waterside. For some, I provide you with a foothold or boost, then hand my pack up to you so I can pull myself up. My knee’s giving me an occasional complaint, and your ankle’s starting to get tired. I make the mistake of rubbing an itch on my cheek, and the scratch starts to bleed again. I don’t notice it until you turn at the top of the next rise and your eyes fill with concern.
“Sit down here, you’re bleeding again – there’s a tear of blood running down to your jaw.”
You take a bandanna out of your pack and dip it in the stream.
Oh! That stings.
“Just try to sit like a big boy won’t you? This time I’m putting a bandage on it so you don’t scratch it again. Yeah, here’s a nice neon pink band-aid for ya.”
Great, I’ll bet that looks cool.
“Uh, yeah, just don’t risk too much on that bet.”
Next time I’ll have to make sure I pack some cool band-aids – spiderman maybe.
“Yeah, that’d be awesome. Where’re we going anyway? You have any idea?
Not really, what do you think?
(“That doesn’t really inspire confidence, that the person with the pen doesn’t know where we end up.”
I don’t like to pretend it’s totally up to me.
“Fine”
It will be, just be patient with it.)
“Nope, I’m only sure that this can’t be it.”
Yeah, I think we’ve still got a ways to go. I’m not sure how to get there, but I know we’ll recognize it when we see it.
“It’s starting to get warm. What time is it?”
Almost noon. Let’s say we go on until 1, then take a break for lunch if we haven’t found a good campsite by then.
“That’s fine, I’m not really that hungry.”
I haven’t been either recently, but maybe we’ll find an appetite for lunch somewhere in our walk together.
“-----. I’ve gotta slow down some before my foot falls off.”
Yeah, I could do with a little less climbing myself. Maybe if we wandered woodward and came back to the stream further up. It looks like things have opened up a bit and we won’t have to fight through the brush much.
Slowing down has it’s own benefits. It gives us time to notice more as we go. Even under the trees, spring has arrived. Right at the edge of the stream bed we wade through a stand of fairy bells, waist-high with yellow bell-shaped flowers.
(You’re probably familiar, they’re a variety of lily.
“They must’ve been waiting for you here then.”)
Further on, we stop to admire the scent of the witch hazel, nearly done blooming, and the summersweet, just starting.
The mountain laurel catch our eye with their candy-striped flowers. We arrange a bouquet and pose snowman holding them.
While you’re working on taking his picture, I’m snipping a small spray off a jetbead – their flowers look like wild rose – to fix on the back of your pack.
(Put the camera down though.
“What?”
No pictures allowed with the neon band-aid.
“Would I do that?”
I just don’t want to take any chances.)
A trio of deer startle and rush off deeper into the woods.
Did you see that?
“Yeah, that was cool. Too bad I didn’t have a chance for a picture, but somebody made me put the camera away.”
Sor-ry, me and my constant vanity…
“Hmm…”
Pushing on, we pass among Dogwoods, (um, what’s that one again? “Persimmon”) Persimmon, and Wild Plums. White petals are sprinkled across the path. A breath of wind brings a new flurry down over your hair and shoulders as you pirouette among them.
Circling back to the stream, we come to a big clearing at the top of a rise. The sun is shining right down into it, and it takes a few seconds for our eyes to adjust. In this big treeless field a wildflower meadow has sprung up. A rainbow of colors covers the ground, interrupted by a few boulders pushing through. We wade through, eyes mostly closed, shoulder against shoulder as we enjoy the perfume. At the far end of the field there’s a big old willow tree whose roots are exposed where they emerge into the stream bed. At the base of the tree, the large roots are just right for a bench seat and we take our packs off and sit down.
“My ankle’s gonna kill me.”
Maybe this’d be a good place to stop for lunch then. After lunch I’ll take a look at that ankle, what-say?
“We’ll see how it feels then. I’ll take care of lunch if you manage dinner ‘kay?”
Sure, whatcha got?
The first thing out of your pack is a bottle of Riesling.
You didn’t bring wine glasses did you?
“I’ve got these Styrofoam cups – very classy, they’re quite the ‘in’ thing.”
Oh yes, all the finest establishments and all. I suppose you also have some stinky cheese?
“Cheese, yes; stinky, no. And some bread, and apricots, and crackers and some other snacky stuff. And some cookies too, I’m sure.”
That looks perfect, here. I hand you my knife so you can use the opener.
Lunch is just right, then the warmth, and the fullness, and the contentment, and the fatigue from the hike all conspire to make it nap time.
(“Yeah, I was gonna say, we did start out a bit early for me.”
Worth it though?
“Still a toss-up.”)
This blanket’s lost it’s brand-new look, but it is good and soft, so we spread it out in the dappled sunlight right at the edge of the wildflowers. I roll my sweatshirt up and push it inside it’s sleeve for a pillow for you. I myself just kick my boots off – argh, my legs are sore – and lace my fingers behind my head, push my cap forward over my eyes and lie down on my back.
Lunch was good, thanks.
“Mm Hmm”
There was something else I wanted to say, but first we both nod off. I wake up briefly when your hand takes my elbow, but you’re not saying anything ‘cause you’re still asleep, so I let a smile out, take hold of your forearm with my free hand and go back to sleep.
When you wake up, I’m sitting on the willow root again with a notebook on my lap. You pretend to still be asleep and you watch for a few minutes.
(You know, you’re not fooling anyone, I noticed you wake up.
“Well that was a funny way of showing it, not looking up, or pausing, or saying anything.”
You seemed to not want to be noticed…
“Well if that’s how it is, I’ll be the one to say something.”)
“Whatcha doin’?”
I don’t have any idea what these wildflowers are, so I’m making some drawings and descriptions so I can look them up before I write this part of the story down. How’s your ankle doing?
“A little stiff and sore; the nap helped.”
Maybe we’ll just make camp here? I’m not sure we could find a better place, and I don’t want to climb any further just to find that out.
“Me either. Especially after that nap I just want to laze around in our stillness and quiet.”
Contemplative and tired, eh? Come on then, I’ve got an idea for us. I reach out both hands to help you up, and you surprise me by letting me do it. I crouch down to pick up the blanket and ‘pillow’, but there’s a long moment of pause letting my legs gather themselves to come back up again: oof, that nap really put me in laze-around mode too. I get all the way up finally, and take another moment to let the sunlight fill me and shake out the inertia. Bring the rest of that bottle and our cups and follow me. I lead you over to the edge of the stream bank and jump back down onto the shaded edge – a little bit of a shaky landing there. Then I help you down since your hands are full. The stream is pretty deep and quiet here. About 30 yards upstream there’s a tree trunk that’s fallen across the stream and is resting on some larger boulders. (The bottom is clearly visible, so you needn’t fear.
“Thanks for being clear about that.”)
We leave our socks in our boots at the water’s edge, roll up our pant legs and wade in. The cold water feels good on our tired legs and feet (not quite as extreme as that ice water bath, just a relief) as we head out to sit on the tree trunk and let our feet dangle into the stream. I reach in and grab a handful of pebbles (Look, here’s this one again. “Oh, keep it this time.”) for a stone skipping contest, which I let you win.
(“Excuse me? Let me win? You didn’t even come close, so don’t try passing off that ‘let you win’ stuff – I’ll take you on any time.”
Okay, then I’m blaming it on the sun getting in my eyes.
“We were sitting in the shade.”
Uh, yeah, well,… you got all the best rocks.
“Whatever.”
Okay, so maybe I wasn’t the most gracious…)
I reach in as if to pick out some more pebbles, but instead flick the water off my hand at you. It quickly escalates as you pour a handful of water down the back of my neck, then it’s splashing at each other and kicking water at each other. Our feigned fighting has turned to laughter. I’ve gotten the worst of it, and am splashed all over my torso but laughing out loud. The heat of the day quickly dries the water away, but the smile remains.
We take turns getting pairs of sticks or leaves to release down the stream. Each time we let go simultaneously, our respective offerings take their own paths around eddies, to either side of the rocks, through small rapids, but every time meeting up again further downstream.
“Tie. Again.”
I didn’t know it was a race.
“Well, I guess not… I think the goal might be to get there in the greatest amount of time together.”
Wow, that was a good one.
The rest of the afternoon slips slowly away with the current.
We better set up camp before it gets dark. I toss some larger creek rocks up to use forming a circle for the fire. Can I let you set out the tarp and tent while I get some wood?
“Why? You think I can’t?”
No, I have every confidence.
By the time I get back, the tent is all set up and the sky over our meadow is starting to turn purple. I get the kindling set out with the wood arranged beside and kneel into the circle to light it.
“You might let me do that so you don’t burn a finger.”
Yeah, that’s prob’ly a good idea.
The fire gets started and built on our first try, and before long there’s bottled water boiling pasta in a pot while I’m working on cutting up the vegetables for pasta salad. That, and bread, and apples, and a cabernet make for dinner. Our entertainment is the sun going down and evening bird song. As the sun sets, we scoot a bit closer to the fire as the air develops a chill in a breeze. I get the espresso maker out of my pack, set it up, and put it on the fire. Then I go back to my pack to look for my sweatshirt. I look everywhere for it, give up, put on a long sleeve shirt and come back to the fire, where I find you wearing it.
Make yourself comfortable.
“I am, now sit over here with me and watch the fireflies rise out of the meadow.”
The espresso maker runs through its gurgling and I pour us each a cup.
“Look up.”
The fireflies, and the cinders, and the stars are putting on a swirling light show overhead. The stars are packed in thick here: the sky is clear and the moon is not yet risen.
I know Leo is up there, but I never remember.
“Look up there: you see the Big Dipper?”
Ursa Major? Yeah.
“Follow the back edge down…”
The front paw you mean.
“…okay, the front paw points right at it down here.”
Oh yeah, there it is, nice.
We spend the early evening between skywatching and tending the fire. I make us each a second espresso, but the caffeine is no match for the fatigue overtaking us. By the time the moon starts to rise – hey look! Shooting star! – we’re ready to turn in. You go on in, I’m gonna tamp down the fire. I’m only minutes behind, but when I get in you’re already fast asleep. (I see you took the comfiest spot there. “Don’t look at me, you’re the one who put the sleeping bags out. You did that on purpose.” Well, yeah, I did. “Thanks.”)

You wake up alone in the tent. Minutes pass, and still I don’t reappear. You step out into the starlit meadow (the moon hides behind a cloud). There’s splashing in the stream, then rustling in the brush at the edge of the meadow.
“Is that you?” You retreat back to the remains of the fire. A branch snaps behind you – you turn around to face into the trees, trying to look hard enough to penetrate the darkness. A shadow moves toward you, barely discernable. It’s before you faster than you can react to get away. You’re frozen in place. The bear rises to his full height and bellows, but he doesn’t scare you. You look up into the bear’s face to notice a scratch on it’s cheek. You reach up to put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He returns to all fours and accepts a hug. Warmth, comfort, support, with a slight bristle come to you in their essence and you feel them from the inside out. The moon breaks free from the clouds and you find yourself looking back into a pair of blue eyes looking back into yours. For a moment everything is still, then in a flash the bear has turned and disappeared back into the darkness.
“Wait! Come back! Wait!
You’re back in the tent, and I’m waking you up. I wipe the tear from your cheek, and take hold of you. What do you mean, ‘Come back’? I’m right here now, and always carry youwith me. I shiver slightly as I give you a hug, warm and supportive, if unshaven… Relax, it’s alright, here, I’ll tell you a story…

…E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stele

…And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars

Dante -- Inferno