I was walking to work today behind this guy in hiking boots, and it made me think (or try to) of the last time I went hiking/camping. I mean, I suppose you can count a little trekking at my grandparents' place, but really camping...as in setting up a tent for the night after hiking a few miles, cooking over a campfire...I miss that. I went with the Outdoor Club a few times frosh year of college, but then the lovely thing called track meets on weekends came about and there went my camping time. I remember right after I went whitewater rafting with the youth group that summer over five years ago, now, I swore I would do it again. And soon. Yeah. And I haven't touched a horse but to just go on a trail ride. Meh. I want to see mountains again, Gandalf, Mountains! I want to gallop or at least a nice canter with a sweet-tempered horse, I want to carry a 50-pound pack for eight hours and collapse on my mat just as the stars are coming out. I want to hear my voice echo in the valley. How did I move away from that? What forces conspired against me to keep me from indulging that side of myself? I miss it when I would spend two weeks every summer galivanting about with other Girl Scouts.

Anyone want to go camping, eh?