Monday, March 31, 2008
For years now, our weekends away from wives and girlfriends had been limited to drive up camping. Each time we went away - the next time was "the big backpacking trip".
Every year during the winter, Backpacker Magazine would begin arriving, gear essential to ultralight backpacking would be, piece by piece, obsessed over and purchased. The list in the back of the mountain guide of "baggable" peaks was memorized. Trails and dates would be agreed upon, yet always we ended up dreaming menus and reasons that would keep it from happening.
the poet complains of knee pain, doesn't want to go on the long talked about backpacking trip, the painter explains his shin splints "are fucking killing me", they both like the idea of a cooler full of beer in a canoe and not on their backs.