thirty three

THE SMELL OF MY MORNING COFFEE

The morning fog was filled with quiet visitors. I sipped my coffee while waiting for the warmth of the morning sun to warm me and dry my gear.

 A curious doe and her fawn do some spying as elk hide just beyond my view. The night time campsite scavengers have gone to bed, while the dayshift eats the spilled noodles from last night’s dinner by the fire pit. 

My fellow travelers emerge blurry eyed from their shelters and begin to prepare for their own daily adventure. The morning brings farewells and wishes for a safe journey and the realization we shall probably never meet again. 

We are fellow nomads with the strong love for independent solitude. We are a small community spread from coast to coast and beyond. We speak a strange language and never talk much about the dangers other than bitch about motor homes with trailing little cars. 

We ask about where we started and where we are going, but measuring becomes less important with each conversation. I camped with a young German named Thomas and a young woman traveling alone from Boston. I had camped a week earlier with Thomas so we knew each other, in fact he called me old man. 

This young woman came in late and we invited her to share our camp fire. At first she refused with a pleasant but definitive thank you, but then changed her mind after she got a sense of us. 

The urge to treat her like our little sister was probably not welcomed, but it is an uncontrollable a natural male trait. She was to be admired for her cross country journey simply on its own merit. 

Thomas was going to take a day off to rest and hike some redwood trails, I was headed to the end of my long journey and a rental car. As I post this, I wonder how and where they are. One thing I feel strongly is that I’m jealous if they are still out there.