It's a Tuesday, but I’m not sure what the date is. Normally I wouldn't care, but I think it might be my Dad's birthday, or it might be tomorrow. Either way I won't be able to tell him happy birthday until the 30th, when we get back to civilization. The hours pass by outside as we sit in Dave's cabin throwing cards and thinking about what to eat next. Cards that used to have a fine gloss finish, and shuffled easily. Now they're dull, brown, worn, a hassle to shuffle. Some we can even recognize face down. There's that old bitch, that queen of spades. Look at the face on that jack of diamonds. Another game? Yeah, why not. We had a home run derby with axe handles and choice rocks yesterday. We took turns standing out in the field with a helmet to verify distances, and give the batter something to aim at. Probably not the best idea, but how can you get hurt with a helmet on, right?
I smell worse than I have all summer, I think we all do. On the last hitch we reinforced some muddy trail with rocks, using mud to fill the gaps, which basically means that we shoveled mud, and when we got bored we threw it at each other. Even though the shower is readily available no one bothers to use it. Better to get your dirtiest before we get back to a clean civilized life. I'm ready to go home, or at least I've been lying to myself to get in the mindset, because I have to leave anyway. It's been a long, fast, short, dirty, belly laughing, simple, happy, insanity inducing two and a half months since the warm apple pie in Boise, since I've seen a car, a cluster of people, a suit, or a telephone. The hair and beard growing on my head are coarse and oily, and can hold a pencil. I took seven showers in ten weeks. Most people take that many in one. I've enjoyed writing letters to my family and friends, it starts a new relationship, and I don't see people's handwriting that often. German beer, French croissants, and eating on the street feel like distant memories. Planning things to eat when we get back is a big topic, music and movies are up there too.
I'm living in a burning state. Over one million acres are on fire of the 2 million making up the Payette national forest. The closest burn is less than four miles away. We're in a pocket actually, with burn on three sides of us. A permanent shroud of smoke, like someone threw Idaho on the grill and forgot about it. Ash rains on us daily like a light December snow. It's strange to be snowed on in 75-degree weather.
Play another hand? Yeah, sure. So, what's for dinner?
Waiting for some excitement, something! I'm harboring a secret hope that the fire clears the final ridge separating Chamberlain from full on inferno. I want to see flames and animals running across the fields in dozens. Dave says we don't need to worry about that. Damn. Good old Chamberlain, holding strong. Outside the window the sun bleeds red and brown through the smoke. I haven’t seen a blue sky in over a week, and it's rare that we see the sun at all. Those days feel like purgatory. Slipping off, talking in obscure, invented accents, imitating grouse, pretending to be Pulaski. Dreams muddled into the following morning. Too close. One ridge away, just get over that damn ridge!
