Sam and I have been taking turns yelling verses from the Beastie Boys’ "Paul Revere," all day. I actually wrote a verse here in my notebook I'm transcribing from.
Reflections on the sunset, and later sunrise, after a night with five hours of the most wonderful, fragmented sleep, tucked away in my sleeping bag with the wind whipping over me, leaving my contacts in to catch a few shooting stars before the night took to me. I didn't want to miss anything. Before I could finish a complete dream it's 5:55 A.M. and the sun is breaking, splitting the night sky, and it looks like an orange blue and green stained glass window through my sleeping bag. And it looks fake. It's too beautiful to be the first thing I open my eyes to. A bit of work that morning, then we met up with the rest of the group at the top of Sheepeater for lunch around noon, but the peak looks different this time. It could never look the same, but it seemed that it was holding back. Last night we caught it off guard, caught it in true form. Two and a half hours and ten miles later we're back, tired, dirty, and barely enough energy to throw down a few greasy cards in a game of Euchre.
Today, writing this, I'm showered, cleaner, and scribbling away on the front porch of the cabin, where I've been getting the majority of my day-off writing done. Maybe I'll write about Jasper tomorrow (short story I've been working on), but Sheepeater deserved a spot here, even though words won't paint the picture. We have today and tomorrow off, then we're headed to Campbell's Ferry, where we'll be out until July 2nd. We'll get groceries on the 4th, and properly celebrate this country's birthday with a bottle of Jim Beam and a middle finger to the British from the middle of nowhere America. We don't have any fireworks, but we have fire, and I'm sure we'll find something to burn. I'm taking the deepest freshest breaths of my life out here. Rice and Lentils in the pot, a warm breeze on my bare shoulders. A cool sun and trees everywhere laying down long shadows. We domesticated a ground squirrel this morning, but we're biding our time until we kill him and a few of his buddies for stew, until we make him fatter.
Blank. Block. Hole in a wooden cabin with an address, writing sideways. Sam said that he thought he'd been born in the wrong time period. I never thought I could find another one, but I seem to have stumbled into it. Won't go back. New York City? Chicago for another few years. Maybe live with my buddies for a while, but not back to that, to Flint. I miss them. A deer outside the window, lentils almost done, dirty legs in my sleeping bag, and itch in the beard, so many trees.
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