When we got to the camp site – chosen careful as a house - we were just so bone weary. Tired in the way that 400 desolate miles and one hard conversation and hours of quiet will leave you.  So we spread out the footprint of the tent together without talking, but not the tent.  Hunched over quietly and cleared the ground of rocks and branches and other potential threats and drew the thin poly tarp out wide against that pine needle carpet.  Thinking about it now, I can remember that it was one of those perfectly fickle mountain days – sunny then cold when the wind kicked up then just slightly too hot when the leaves fell still and light cooked straight down through the lacy cutouts of the canopy.

We spread our sleeping bags out facing the mountain range across the lake and slept for an hour or two in the open air. Grinning in our sleep like fools for getting away with something, it seemed. No one ever lets you sleep outside.

Eventually a park ranger woke us, talked to us with friendly authority about bear sightings and metal food boxes while our hearts beat fast as they do when pulled too suddenly from sleep.

When he left, we saw that tiny worms had parachuted out of the tree so many yards above us. Pale as cream and swinging down from translucent fiber onto our cheeks, almost too softly to feel. Onto our shirts and pillows, waiting for days to be found.

Later, we went down to a wooden ranger station at the edge of the park. Listened to recorded voices of aging Blackfeet welcome us to their land, which made me unbearably sad and I could feel the whole system nodding condescendingly “Your land. That’s right.” And I wonder which of us knew better than the other. 

We stayed out too late that night, hiking to see one last plateau and miscalculating our time. Walked back in the bowing dusk, stopping by the side of the road to gather wild strawberries. Small as pebbles, sweeter than anything. Licked the stain off our finger tips and walked home to cook dinner in the dark, to rebuild a fire by lantern light.