backpacking and last things

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Last month Jess and I went backpacking at Point Reyes. We left behind cell phones and clocks and found ourselves on deserted beaches with time to spare for once. We napped in the sun until our skin was hot to touch. We sat in the bluffs and listened to the wind bickering with the grass. We went sprinting in the ankle-deep foam. We read Jack Kerouac aloud to each other as we ate nectarines. We stopped to look at the goggly-eyes of a crab. We made a campfire on the dark beach and wrapped a blanket around our two bodies as we watched the moon in its massive silence. We laughed about our idiosyncrasies and spurted our favorite words, one after the other, as we climbed up into the pine-laden hills. We did a lot of things, and a lot of nothings, and it was perfect.

"And I said, 'That last thing is what you can't get, Carlo. Nobody can get to that last thing. We keep on living on hopes of catching it once and for all.'"
(Jack Kerouac, On The Road)

[all film photos from a disposable camera]
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