The Road to Wyoming (Part 2)
Dark skies and no moon to open it. We began unpacking with the light of a lantern. I held a flashlight between my teeth, annoyed with my forgetfulness and lack of a headlamp.
I clicked a portable stove on, diced some onions into the pan, and splashed oil to listen to them sizzle. The gas fire was just a trace, as was the full sized fire at the camp down the lakeside. Some dogs wandered off leash near us. Sarah was uncomfortable with their presence, but they were house dogs, and tamer than anything willing to harm us. They would sneak close to smell my slow cooking, and skitter away when I turned to look at them.
Quietly, the sky lit up. Sarah stopped feeding aluminum poles through the tent and stood to look toward the reservoir.
“Keifer, look.” She whispered.
I turned. The moon had erupted through an opening in the overcast skies. Dark clouds surrounded, grayed if near, and black if far from the light of the moon. It flared orange over the reservoir. The reflection of a passionate sky to the west. A streaming reflection made its way to us on the water.
“In Swedish I'd say that's a mongatan. A moon road.” I told her.
The water looked solid enough to walk on, and the thick orange lane over the water was a painted pathway to bring you across. A light breeze moved the lane, shaking it lightly and breaking the perfection that held it solid.
We watched clouds turn visible over the reservoir, brightened by the light. The onions sizzled as we relaxed for a minute from our work. A pot of water began boiling, and the gas from the stove whispered as it breathed out. Our hectic setup turned calm. We finished building up the tent, and ate hungrily. The basic pasta was great, and the single lantern gave just enough light to clean our plates after.
The thick hunger of camping is a nostalgic and unique feeling. I remember days of hiking through the Sierra’s, or nights up in Northern Colorado, and the exact food I ate. It is a type of hunger that comes from being far from a kitchen. After a long day of work, or a haul that keeps your mind too busy to be hungry until dinnertime.
Sarah and I were already exhausted, even though it was early in the night. The morning of packing and constant awareness that is needed when driving makes me weary.
The moon returned to its own slumber, protected by the cover of rainless clouds. Darkness spread quickly over us, and the lantern was again our only light. The air was quickly turning cold. We slid into our own cover to hide in sleeping bags. No more hiss of stove, no more sizzle of vegetables. We slept in a silence only found in the cold night of an open wild.
I clicked a portable stove on, diced some onions into the pan, and splashed oil to listen to them sizzle. The gas fire was just a trace, as was the full sized fire at the camp down the lakeside. Some dogs wandered off leash near us. Sarah was uncomfortable with their presence, but they were house dogs, and tamer than anything willing to harm us. They would sneak close to smell my slow cooking, and skitter away when I turned to look at them.
Quietly, the sky lit up. Sarah stopped feeding aluminum poles through the tent and stood to look toward the reservoir.
“Keifer, look.” She whispered.
I turned. The moon had erupted through an opening in the overcast skies. Dark clouds surrounded, grayed if near, and black if far from the light of the moon. It flared orange over the reservoir. The reflection of a passionate sky to the west. A streaming reflection made its way to us on the water.
“In Swedish I'd say that's a mongatan. A moon road.” I told her.
The water looked solid enough to walk on, and the thick orange lane over the water was a painted pathway to bring you across. A light breeze moved the lane, shaking it lightly and breaking the perfection that held it solid.
We watched clouds turn visible over the reservoir, brightened by the light. The onions sizzled as we relaxed for a minute from our work. A pot of water began boiling, and the gas from the stove whispered as it breathed out. Our hectic setup turned calm. We finished building up the tent, and ate hungrily. The basic pasta was great, and the single lantern gave just enough light to clean our plates after.
The thick hunger of camping is a nostalgic and unique feeling. I remember days of hiking through the Sierra’s, or nights up in Northern Colorado, and the exact food I ate. It is a type of hunger that comes from being far from a kitchen. After a long day of work, or a haul that keeps your mind too busy to be hungry until dinnertime.
Sarah and I were already exhausted, even though it was early in the night. The morning of packing and constant awareness that is needed when driving makes me weary.
The moon returned to its own slumber, protected by the cover of rainless clouds. Darkness spread quickly over us, and the lantern was again our only light. The air was quickly turning cold. We slid into our own cover to hide in sleeping bags. No more hiss of stove, no more sizzle of vegetables. We slept in a silence only found in the cold night of an open wild.
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