Friday

          The call of nature, my most reliable portable alarm clock, motivated an early rise as the sun, pierced by the trees, spread its golden glory along the ridge top.

          The darkened interior of the tent slowly gave way giving form to the smells of damp wool, leather and nose eating socks, draped on taut cords.  The compass, open and twisting on its cord, revealed from its mirror snippets of images of my small world:  glacier glasses, hanging like dismembered bug eyes, clacking against the altimeter, which is slowly showing an elevation gain, promising a change in weather to come.  The small lantern hanging like a pendulum from the tents peak, making tight circles above my head.  The stove, water bottles, and cook set were in casual order at the foot of the tent.  My cobalt blue sleeping bag puffed up, taking on the appearance of a large cocoon, protecting it's bug, lay stretched out nearly the full length of the tent.  My breath creating a warm vapor cloud dissipating slowly in the cold air.  My little world, coming into light. 

          Having read the morning away, it was already to late for breakfast.  Instead, I opted for a simple lunch. The thought of retrieving the sled was fleeting.  I gathered the photographic paraphernalia around me and started to clean lenses.  It seems that the close up lens is missing.  I must have left it at the bottom of the ridge at the first camp.  It is already late in the day.  Waiting for tomorrow to retrieve the lens and the sled seems like a better idea.

          Slate grey clouds paint out the sky; and, the few flakes that fall turn to rain, smacking the tent like a million small pebbles.  I'd rather have warm sun and cruddy snow than rain.

          I'm wishing for snow!