… The last mile to camp is always a drag. Almost always. Or always. I could be strolling through a wonderland of gold and diamonds and chocolate fountains and unicorns, but moving like an uninspired sloth. My feet are tired. My butt is gently chafed. I need nutrients.
In camp, I immediately engage in some sort of polite battle with fellow tent-pitchers over The Best Spot. “No, you pick first.” “No, no – you pick.” I invariably choose one that seems flat and windless. Seems.
Time for water math. Do I have enough? Should I filter tonight or in the morning? How much should I grab for dinner? …
Kolby brought this excellent blog to my attention. 🙂 I’m now subscribed.