Personally, I'm a fairly areligious person, but something about nature removed from urbanized humanity makes me want to fall to my knees. Even a simple pie fry over a campfire traces patterns of wonder on my brain:
This is how I found myself crawling on elbows and knees over carpets of pine needles:
and along cattle paths through scrub brush:
Thanks to our travelling companions, C and G, we ate decadently and with abandon. I grew a rather impressive food baby out there in the woods.
Have you ever eaten smoked Shropshire blue cheese? No? Your tastebuds are VIRGINS.
Please enjoy the following photograph, because it is the one that has probably ended my life. Palinode, I love you.
Strangely, the forest we were in was rife with cows. You'd be hiking along, silently thinking ticks, omigod, is that a tick in my pants? holy crap, ticks, and suddenly your sneaker would land in giant, warm pile of fresh cow shit.
On the drive home from our camping trip, we decided to turn into our parents and visit a museum dedicated to a piece of Canadian history, Fort Walsh. We went on this guided tour of the fort lead by people in period costumes, and they pointed at various period items and told us a very cleaned up version of the history of the beginnings of that part of Canada as it pertained to our aboriginal brothers and sisters. Apparently everyone was treated equally and there was no racism and the government just wanted the best for everyone concerned.
It's weird to hear lies like that. It's inappropriate. We know better. It's like watching an entire community willfully deny that there's a pedophile in their midst. Lies are a continuance of the crime.
Anyway, I always find historic sites that have been rebuilt and outfitted to look like a specific time period to be really creepy. Creepy in the way that those dolls with eyes that open and shut are creepy. There is never any dust, and everything is lined up at right or 45-degree angles just so, and the pantries are filled with plastic food so that the people with the plastic heads don't get hungry.
Maybe it's just me. It's probably just me.
I shouldn't harp on period reconstructions for creepiness, though, because I can be pretty damn creepy all on my own.
We walked up the hill when we left the fort and visited an old graveyard. When a camera is in my hands, I often forget where I'm walking and, apparently, WHAT BABY'S GRAVE I'M LYING ON. If it helps, that baby probably died in the 1920s, but it didn't help my creep factor at the time when I got the shot and rolled over to see another cross with baby-something painted on it and I realized that I was lolling about on the graves of children.
And some people wonder why I am in therapy.
And then our camping trip was over, and we did not even die from the lack of running water, electricity, or flush toilets.