Cedar scent in my tent. Soft and spongy soil. Rhythmic breath, deep basset baritone. Elvis, snoring louder than anyone ever should. Sawing logs in the redwood forest.
He ain’t nothing but a hound dog.
Mouth agape, grinning about some really great inside joke that only basset hounds know. He was a yard sale. Sprawled all over the place. Dwarf two-inch legs jutting up to the sky, like four posts of a billboard promoting dogs on vacation. I wish I could sleep like – live like -- that.
Let it all go, his body said.
Sun coming up, searing a laser hot slice of orange glow through turquoise tent. Snuggled up to Elvis, the king of camping, was his best bud, Dude. The basset/beagle, a bagel, was spooning Elvis, quietly snoring with a peaceful baby face. Dude released himself to the universe. The forest.
Let it all go.
Like a sweet little basset boy that finally found home. In a Coleman tent that rattled in the ocean breeze.
Wait, did someone say ocean?
Right inside the tent, with redwood air and basset hounds sawing logs, was the scent of the sea, the rhythm of Mother Ocean.
You can smell her from the forest, few places on Earth – here in the California redwoods. Here in No Cal, two hundred year old trees hang out with their next door neighbors, sandy beaches. You never see that in So Cal, where we once lived.