I don't know about your dog, but mine insists on two W-A-L-K-S a day. I can't even say the word in the house otherwise Lucy goes nuts and thinks it's time to strap in for a stroll around the neighborhood. Which is a pain in the ass because, she's very methodical about her sniffing and her obsessive need to sniff every tree trunk.
As of late, it's seem my olfactory senses have heightened as well.
Recently I've made it a point to walk by one of my neighbors and his meticulously sculpted drought tolerant garden. Why? Because he has a specific member of the sage family growing in the front yard that packs a potent punch. Potent meaning one whiff and my brain immediately conjures up the high chaparral plants we would encounter every year on our annual camping trips to the High Sierras.
It's very odd and interesting how smell is so intimately tied to our sense of memory. Perhaps a leftover from our reptilian and animal brains? A wolf for instance can detect prey from three miles away. Its sense of smell is far more powerful than its sight or hearing.
Sadly, after a 20 year run, the camping trips, will be no more.
I cannot see myself visiting this Deb's Happy Place without her. And the next time I do go there -- and I don't know when I'll be ready -- I will be bringing Deb. And spreading her ashes on this tiny spot of Earth that meant the world to her.
It was Deb, more than any of us, who would take note of the setting sun and suggest we grab our camping seats, snacks and cocktails, and climb the 100 yards behind our showering tent to The Meadow.
We didn't have to smile for the camera in the photo above, because we were always smiling. Once there, we'd talk about the great hikes we had done, maybe even compare foot blisters.
Paul would revel us with a story about one the goofy kids in his classroom. Colin would fart and try to blame it on me. We'd talk about what was for dinner. And take in the deep, soothing silence and curative fresh mountain air. And watch the purple shade drape the White Mountains to our East.
And of course, it wouldn't be a camping trip without the natural devolvement of the conversation to cover the natural excretions of the human body. I'll spare you the scatological details, suffice it to say that one time, one of us had the unfortunate experience of dropping his or her phone into the campsite latrine, which are meticulously maintained, btw.
Making matters worse, the... er, hole...is a good 15 foot drop from the toilet. Lucky for us the campground host was handy with a long stick and had an encyclopedic knowledge of knots like the Half Hitch, the Soft Shackle Edwards, and the Icicle Loop. 10 minutes later he had fished out the aromatic phone and then we had to collectively figure out how to clean it.
Last year, our last camping trip, Deb was fatigued from her radiation treatments, so instead of car camping, I had rented a 23 foot RV so she could get bedrest whenever it was necessary. And it turned out it was necessary the entire time we were there. She couldn't even make it to the The Meadow.
Nevertheless, she told me on the ride home, that the abridged camping trip was the best gift I ever got her.
And now, knowing how much she appreciated my efforts, I see it as a gift I got for myself.
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