The trees sway in the wind, as pine cones hit the ground with muffled thumps. Laying on my back staring at the top of my worn out tent, I breath deeply. Muscles sore and cramped from the previous day, I rise and unzip the tent as a red squirrel scurries by, pine cone in mouth. I stand and stretch as birds sing high above; the sun just starting to kiss the sky.
The chilled air nips my nose, and the grass sparkles with dew. Bending over I lace up my trail shoes, and shake off the tent. Dew shimmers and shines as it hits the ground. I walk over to find my bear can and my stomach growls. Watching the flame of my stove dance, I silently encourage the water to boil, eagerly awaiting breakfast. After quieting the complaints of my stomach with berries, nuts and oats, I pack up the weathered tent and my down sleeping bag.
Pulling the draw strings on my beat-up pack, I hike it up over my shoulders and onto my back. With a slight smile, I return the to the trail. The soft crunch of leaves is the only sound as I continue along the narrow trail. This is where I love to be, and where I belong. There is not a more perfect morning.