So, I’m newish to this blogging thing. I like to think I used to be a pretty decent writer back in the days when I’d actually, well, write. I’m not even talking about in the grammatical sense (like that all the prepositions and things are in the right places, though that’s sure a plus), but in the actual story sense. Things tended to flow a lot easier for me when I wrote semi-regularly. As is true with any activity, I suppose. I tend to write what I feel, and because of that I might consider myself a millennial Carrie Bradshaw with Chucks on instead of Minolos. Sometimes my blurbs sound better spoken out loud than read off a page. So, by all means, serenade your cat or dog or spouse if you feel the same way.
Anyway, to the subject matter. This past weekend was Labor Day, which generally translates across America to “the end of summer,” or “winter is coming,” for my fellow Game of Thrones fans. My mom was visiting from New York, which was totally awesome, and we all went camping. One of our favorite spots lies between Lyons and Estes Park, Colorado atop a lovely overlook perfect for bonfires, beers and anything in tents.
I’m not saying I won’t go camping again before next summer, but this weekend’s trip was perfect in every way.
“The mountains are calling, and I must go.” – John Muir