This first day of summer, the longest day of the year. Sun burnt and fully bearded with a fresh tingle over my skin from jumping in Chamberlain creek. It was cold, the type of cold that flexes muscles for you, leaving a glowing feeling on the exposed skin.
Rice, beef flavored Ramen noodles, some trail mix, and a bowl of granola and instant milk in my belly. Looking out through a mesh door. Fourteen mosquitoes outside buzzing around confused. "Why can't we get in?" they buzz, as they fly into the mesh and get tangled repeatedly. I'm hunkered down a foot from them, behind the mesh shield. Scratching one of their bites. Bleeding my pen away in the middle of nowhere.
The creek was enchanted, and I feel embarrassed that I drank from it. 2 liters stolen, lying right next to me trapped in plastic bottles next to a grimy deck of cards, a synthetic sleeping bag, and a few scattered piles of dirt. The droning hum of frustrated mosquitoes.
The area we hiked today looked like another planet, with the wind whistling through high standing burnt pines. The vibrant new growth coming up stood out against the charred giants, making what looked like a soft bed for them to fall into some day. A strange feeling came over me, like walking into a church service late. I felt intimidated, awed, and scrutinized. A trespasser.
Tonight is the first night of a four day hitch. Jim Beam, groceries and mail from loved ones far away waiting when we get back. My tent mate Sam's face is red and shiny like a Christmas drunkard. The good old boy from Missouri. Boston Consulting Group sponsored cards to throw around. I'm back to old habits and rubber soled footsteps, switchbacks, and baby blisters, beans, burritos, save the bacon grease, flat folded clothes packed up for months at a time. My new backpack and I are having a passionate affair on the old maid. I traded her for a sleeker shinier one. New words from the same pen. I'm in a very different place.
I've got a long green bruise, good shoes, and less to lose. Mark hiked 18 miles each way for a guitar to strum so we could sing fragmented songs from memory while we fart and check our creases and crevices for ticks. Hair lines, genitals. Found one on my shoulder blade the other day. My fingers have found their way around an axe, while the same parts of my palm wear down and fill with puss, red with frustration.
The creek is calling me. A few mosquitoes have given up for the night, packed for tomorrow, stuffed in, and zip tied with sore shoulders. Enough sodium lost and gained to suit the average person for a lifetime. Lose it, get it back, break up a ramen square, eat it raw, kind of tastes like a cracker, yeah? Let's cook some up, put them in some hot water let them flow, give them something to talk about on the way down your throat. I wonder what it's be like to be a single ramen noodle, suddenly exposed to the world, to this part of the world. They probably go into shock, that's why their so rigid when you open the wrapping. They freeze in their tracks when out of nowhere they get a full on dose of world without warning. Feeling every sensation within the split second it takes to open a pack. I'd trade anything to be a ramen noodle at that instant.
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