We reach an impasse in the failing light and choose a bend to pitch our tent and table above the foggy valley floor.
It’s nighttime now and with the icy logging roads behind us, I uncap the Old Crow to heat my stomach and blow life into the gasping fire against the rain and rivers of mist that flow through the hills and swallow us whole.
The flames begin to gather and grow hot against the frigid night, vaporizing raindrops back up to their other being, adding with our breath. We draw our chairs closer to the fire and talk. Bringing us back into our bubble, words straining at the darkness in electric fingers of light.
Night lasts long outside and by morning we are ready to return to warmth. Thankful for a presence with the calm.