I’ve spent the day hiking with a group, especially on a gorgeous fall day, only to have the hike draw to a close and at least one hiker bemoan the fact they had to abandon the woods and head home.
No you don’t, I’d say. Camp and stay the night!
Inevitably, a series of weak excuses would follow. I don’t want to carry all that gear. I don’t like sleeping on the ground and being uncomfortable. I don’t even have the gear.
On Thursday, we wrote of our forgotten trails, the trails that we once hiked regularly, the trails we dreamt of hiking when hiking was in our dreams. And then, for some reason, we stopped hiking them. Can’t really remember why, either.
Wednesday morning I was 10 minutes down the trail, passing through a clearing about to reenter the woods when I was struck by an odd mix of discovery and deja vu. The trail through this rolling hardwood forest and this clearing was both familiar and foreign. I’d hiked here before, plenty of times. At one point, I probably hiked here two or three times a month. And I had some vivid memories, including one visit in a light snow. But there was one thing I couldn’t remember.
Don’t you love it when it rains during the week and the sun comes out for the weekend? The remnants of Sally leave the state Friday afternoon, clearing the way for cool temperatures — highs only in the mid-60s, overnight lows in the upper 40s — and sunny skies. It’s a weekend when you’ll definitely want to be outside. Trouble is, so will everyone else.
Face it: you miss your coworkers. Sure, Bob in the next cube could drive you nuts with his frequent “Got a minute?”s. The chronic tongue-clucker near the copy machine, the dude
overmedicating on Creed Aventus, the fantasy football guys, the never knowing when Ms. Dithers might drop by “just to say hello.”
