Well, I'm Going
Posted: Sat Jul 28, 2007 12:26 pmWell, I'm Going
So my friend called the other day. His name isn't important to this story, so let's just call him "Mike". We've known each other for decades. We seen each other grow from wild teenagers to responsible adults. Oh, the stories we could tell.
When I heard his voice mail asking me to call him when I had a chance, I already knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell me that he would yet again be unable to make the next trip backpacking into Yosemite.
He use to be a reliable backpacking partner, and make at least two or three annual trips. But as time went on, with jobs, marriage and children, his forays into the wilderness became fewer and fewer. It soon became once a year, tops, and sometimes skipping a year.
After each trip, he would vow to go on the next one. I would look at him, half-frown, nod my head a little and say, "I hope so".
So I knew what this call was about. He would probably warn me about an imminent collapse in the commercial lighting business that could only be averted by his attention, or that he is sure that his wife really wanted him by her side that weekend. Don't get me wrong, those are both excellent reasons to postpone personal recreation, (except in all the years I have know his wife, she never fails to say, "Take him, please. Stay an extra day. He needs to go. He's driving me crazy.")
I returned his call.
"Hello?", he said.
"Where were you on August 1st, 2005, at 7:30pm?", I asked.
"I don't know, probably at home, doing something, I don't know.", he replied.
"I was in camp.", I said, " The last few embers were glowing from the cook fire. A breeze worked it's way through the trees. They swayed, as though they were dancing. It was the last dance. It was a love song. It was a slow song. It was a sad song.
"Birds went about their evening business. A cry here, a flutter there.
"The ridge towering above was bathed in evening-light. It's mid-day starkness now evolving into a sparkling light show of green, grey, and gold, assuming a new character every minute. In the waning light, it seems to grow and diminish at the same time.
"The nearby creek was telling a story. Almost voice-like, with every plop, drop and gurgle, it beckoned to come rest by its side, to better hear of all its triumphs and tragedies.
"I remember exactly where I was and what I was was doing. I was at 'home' in the mountains, enjoying the finest concert and light show that nature has to offer. My belly was full, and my heart content.
"I was lacking only one thing to make it complete."
"And that was....?", he asked.
"You.", I replied, then hung up.
So my friend called the other day. His name isn't important to this story, so let's just call him "Mike". We've known each other for decades. We seen each other grow from wild teenagers to responsible adults. Oh, the stories we could tell.
When I heard his voice mail asking me to call him when I had a chance, I already knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell me that he would yet again be unable to make the next trip backpacking into Yosemite.
He use to be a reliable backpacking partner, and make at least two or three annual trips. But as time went on, with jobs, marriage and children, his forays into the wilderness became fewer and fewer. It soon became once a year, tops, and sometimes skipping a year.
After each trip, he would vow to go on the next one. I would look at him, half-frown, nod my head a little and say, "I hope so".
So I knew what this call was about. He would probably warn me about an imminent collapse in the commercial lighting business that could only be averted by his attention, or that he is sure that his wife really wanted him by her side that weekend. Don't get me wrong, those are both excellent reasons to postpone personal recreation, (except in all the years I have know his wife, she never fails to say, "Take him, please. Stay an extra day. He needs to go. He's driving me crazy.")
I returned his call.
"Hello?", he said.
"Where were you on August 1st, 2005, at 7:30pm?", I asked.
"I don't know, probably at home, doing something, I don't know.", he replied.
"I was in camp.", I said, " The last few embers were glowing from the cook fire. A breeze worked it's way through the trees. They swayed, as though they were dancing. It was the last dance. It was a love song. It was a slow song. It was a sad song.
"Birds went about their evening business. A cry here, a flutter there.
"The ridge towering above was bathed in evening-light. It's mid-day starkness now evolving into a sparkling light show of green, grey, and gold, assuming a new character every minute. In the waning light, it seems to grow and diminish at the same time.
"The nearby creek was telling a story. Almost voice-like, with every plop, drop and gurgle, it beckoned to come rest by its side, to better hear of all its triumphs and tragedies.
"I remember exactly where I was and what I was was doing. I was at 'home' in the mountains, enjoying the finest concert and light show that nature has to offer. My belly was full, and my heart content.
"I was lacking only one thing to make it complete."
"And that was....?", he asked.
"You.", I replied, then hung up.