Some days I feel light, some days heavy. The past few weeks were heavy, a lot on my mind. I wanted escape. Blue water, hot sun, tequila. Alpine meadows, cold mornings, raclette. A flight to a foreign city I’ve never been to. A flight to Manhattan and a long lunch with friends at Gramercy Tavern or Keens. But deadlines loomed, prices were insane. Each day felt like the day before. I rolled out of bed and trudged through.
At least there were mountains nearby.
“Cowboy camping,” as a term, just means laying on the ground. It’s the scene in the Western where the guys sleep around the fire with a bedroll, at most, behind their head. No tent, no shelter. It’s rougher, more spontaneous. Open to rain and wind and scorpions. I feel like cowboy camping ties back to our hereditary wildness, being literally closer to the ground.
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