But for now, I stare into the campfire as if looking for life’s meaning within the flames, hunched against the cold and wind. My thick but threadbare quilted flannel shirt covers my back like a blanket over a lonely orphan. My jeans, stiff with the dust of hundreds of trails, make steady (but futile) efforts to keep my legs warm. The hair peeking out around the edges of my cap whips in the cold, merciless desert wind. The three of us huddle around the fire tucked behind a boulder, out of sight of the highway far down the valley below us. Much could be said, but the crackling of the fire accompanies the soft picking of Randy’s guitar and fills the night so completely that conversation is impossible.
As I think about my sleeping bag, this night’s abode, I harbor fond memories of warm nights on my waterbed at my parents’ house and cozy nights spent stashed away in a snow-encroached cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. How far are those mountains of my youth from our little campfire, and how distant those memories of our now-forgotten nation! How I long to have just one meal from the home that I remember; how I long for one evening with the parents who raised me! I hear the wolf cry from a nearby mountaintop, and my heart joins in with his song. I know him, for I know loneliness. And this, the wolf’s defining quality, is my constant companion.
There are two others with me. I know no more of them than first names. They could be coming from the war-torn country which was once America; many have. Or they may be drifters from other parts. It doesn’t matter.
My mind snaps back to the important matters like a rubber band that was being held out of place. Which was will I head tomorrow? East still looks attractive. If I keep going, I may stumble on a colony where I can try to find work, or at least a decent meal. I’ve heard that there a few English-speaking settlements to the east.
As I slip off my worn hiking boots, I cast a wary glance to make sure my companions are both asleep, then notice that one of my shoelaces is fraying. As I zip up my sleeping bag, I stare into the African night sky far, far above. And as my thoughts shut down and I begin to drift off to sleep, memories of California run through my head…
