This morning when I woke up, I unzipped my tent and walked down to the river to take a dip. I shed my layers... my fleece, and my thermals, my birks and my wool socks... and dove head long into the glacial current. Yes, it's freezing cold, but the invigoration is what I came for.

I couldn't stay in as long as I wanted, hypothermia would be a buzz kill. My skin was red from the shock, and I shivered as I got dressed. I needed to chop some more firewood, and that helped warm me back up.

I've always found the task of stoking a fire to be the ultimate relaxation. I got a good fire back, dumped some grounds in my percolator, and enjoyed the aroma of the coffee more than the taste.

Being here, on the side of this mountain... this is where my spirit feels most alive. There is nothing that I have to do, nothing more urgent than collecting wood for tonights fire, and filtering drinking water for the day.

I hiked about two miles, along the ridgeline with my camera, to see what I could see. I found a hidden spring bubbling up. The tiny blue flowers that encircled the pool reminded me of Granny. I wish she could see this. Somehow she is. I know that I am appreciating them because she would have. I sat down to spend time with her there. I laughed remembering how my Mom used to pretend she was a tiny little water sprite, a fairy, dancing on top of water like this, liting on blades of grass. Me, I'm a fairy too.

I sat there for such a long time, hours passed before I even noticed. This is the time of year for afternoon thunderstorms. I can't help but be entranced by the clouds moving above my head. The weather always comes from the west. Darker and darker, the sky motivates me to get back to camp.

It was sprinkling by the time I got there, and the thunder was so loud... it shook me in my shoes. An act of nature? I think not... God knows that I love a good thunderstorm. I'm ready.

I waited out the rain in my tent, with a copy of The Road. Is heaven any better than the sound of rain pattering on canvas, while I'm curled up in my sleep sack with an amazing book? I don't think so. I've had a hard time making it through McCarthy's tale, it's darker and more penetrable than anything I've ever read. It's painful to read, but I can't stop. The hopelessness is so raw, and the love is so real, it begs me to keep going. I fumble through the almost biblical vocabulary, rereading passages three times just to make sure I got it. When I realized that the rain had stopped, I was relieved to have permission to put the book down.

I spent the rest of the day throwing my flies, like clock work, into the river... I'm not the best angler, but I caught two fish. One keeper, and one throw back. The ritual of preparing dinner is something of Shakespearean romance. I cleaned the Cutty, and sizzled it to golden perfection. It was so good!

Sunset was a mango orange, with bright pink streaks, and everything was cast in a golden haze at dusk. I grabbed another PBR, my headlamp, and took off to spot some animals. Last night there was a huge bull moose drinking at the river, and during the night the elk were bugling. I didn't see anything other that a big fat porcupine, but his lazy wobble made me laugh.

It's so dark that I can see every single star in the sky. No matter what anyone says, wishing upon stars has it's rewards. I counted more than ten shooters, until the clouds covered the moon, and I turned my eyes back to the glowing ashes in the fire.

The flames, blue and orange, licked the chilly night air... and I yawned big and purposeful. The trance from watching a camp fire, the art of poking at it with my stick, and watching as sparks spit into the black sky... this is what it's all about.

My yawns finally overtook me as the fire got dim. I crawled back into my bag, and drifted into peaceful sleep within seconds.