Camping with my friend and my late wife. North California. Dry camping. His Jeep, my Tear.
All that is left is the teardrop. Everything else is gone. 

routine amuk

It was supposed to be routine.

You check in in the morning, they do their thing and you go home maybe that afternoon, or the next day at the latest.

The evening before I sent an email: “I know this is a pretty low risk procedure, but I am concerned.” The answer came back with an email grin: “After I recover a bit, how about a trip to Zion this summer in our tears.” Since we both own teardrop camper trailers, the idea hit a great spot.

The next morning I got a phone call: “He did not make it.”

My hiking partner (before a heart attack), camping buddy, co-teacher in a church class and one of my two dearest friends: gone.

I felt empty. I still feel empty.

It is so damned permanent.