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The day would pass in blissful brightness, with our brains on auto-pilot. The stories we'd tell and the memories we'd conjure up from years past, one couldn't help but think we were all running on about four pots of coffee each with the energy that was pumping through our veins. From jokes about serial killers in the woods, wondering if we were ever gonna find the lake, to the constant face-palms of: Why-didn't-we-do-this-sooner? and We-should-do-this-more-often! It was an indefinable mix of regret at having not done this earlier, and joy at the prospect of more to come.

To this day I can still recall the feeling of sitting by the shore of Hidden Lake, watching the sun set behind the tall mountain peaks that threatened to shatter the sky, knowing full well what would happen if I didn't gather wood for the fire soon. The darkness would encroach, and the temperature would drop to such that even the leaves themselves might shiver. The sun took his role once more as the proverbial clock, and the moon, his mistress, would instill within us that feeling of yearning long buried beneath decade's worth of city distractions.

Joel would be chopping sticks and logs, and Monica would prepare the sausages for the fire, while the rest of the gang (Jonathan, Brandon and I) struggled with setting up tents. Deeply knit eyebrows, tongue stuck out in deep concentration, as if anticipating future interstellar flight. It came to me shortly after, once the pegs were pegged, flaps were zipped, that if by some miracle Buzz Aldrin stepped into the woods on that fine snowy evening, he'd happily affirm my suspicions: it's not rocket science, folks.

The mirror of the lake would turn into molasses when the sun finally set. The flashlights would be drawn, cutting into the night like light-sabers or futuristic cyclops if headlamp is more your style. The rest of the crew were all huddled around a crackling fire, and I'd be changing into my skivvies not 10 feet away. Why?

Because I could.

coals smolder
a spark cleaves
to the sky
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