I could tell you about my late summer vacation: the drinking, the mushrooms conveniently growing in the forest, the hallucinations, the voices in my head telling me to burn shit down.
I could tell you about Sonja telling me to leave my guns alone when I get buzzed past a certain point - that point being breakfast.
I could tell you about how after we climbed a moderate sized mountain Hunky Z heaved boulders off the top to the delightful encouraging shouts of campers thousands of feet below us. I could tell you how many beer Kitty's camping jacket hid until we reached the summit. Or how good it felt after a little while to down a bottle of Sonja's cherry port between us in four fortified satisfying glugs.
I could tell you about how many small children's noses got sucked snotless by my snot sucking dog in the friendly campground.
I could tell you about the wildlife, the stars and the rainbows.
I could tell you about all this but what I am going to tell you about is how good it felt to be in the mountains, away from the campground, away from everything, with my dog, listening to myself breathe in the silence that precedes hockey season in Canada.