camping - part three
Last year, on Plane Crash Island, Mark had built a skookum fire pit with a high rock surround to keep the wind from snuffing our fire. It had been a wildly gusty weekend and it was very cold and we were worried about everything and it wasn't fun. This year we were pleased to see the fire pit had survived the winter, likely frozen solid under mounds of crusty snow. S'mores were had by all and, of course, s'more were had by all. We weren't worried a mite (one cannot worry and eat s'mores at the same time -'tis a verifiable impossibility) and it was only when we saw the sky move seamlessly from sunset to sunrise that we rolled up our stories and packed our contented selves deep down in our sleeping bags.
But before that, between string bites of marshmallow gauze and warm nutella, we were witness to an all-night twilight on our left ...
On an island in a lonely lake, fish asleep in stoney pools lapping the black rock, and fire crackle filling the spaces between laughter and chocolatey fingers, sun and moon passing notes.
Is it any wonder we return each year?