Page 54 of Past Tents

Then I sorted through my bag, quietly pulled out a fresh set of clothes, and left the tent to get dressed before I got any new ideas about kissing her again.

I walked down to the creek and carried a few liters of water back to boil for hot chocolate once the kids woke up. Then I gathered more wood for a campfire.

In the past, it always seemed like there were loads of morning chores to do and never enough time to do them, but this morning, I ran out of ideas once I’d set up our cooking equipment and walked the perimeter of the campsite to make sure there was no evidence of animals disturbing anything during the night.

With the kids still asleep, I had time to leisurely set up breakfast and enjoy the slow morning pace. It was what I loved most about camping—the sunrise hour felt clean and unhurried with the twists and turns of the day still to be determined.

I loved the sense of possibility. After one kiss, I loved it even more.

It might end up biting me in the ass, but I didn’t care.

When I caught sight of Ally, I walked over to the large flat rock where she stood at the lookout above the valley. I put my hands on her shoulders briefly before dropping them by my sides.

“G’morning.” My voice sounded like sandpaper working over dry wood.

She turned around with a shy smile that cracked open when she saw me. It was almost enough to ignite the desire I felt to throw her over my shoulder and find a hidden spot in the woods where I could see where that one kiss would lead.

Almost. But, no. Not here. Not now.

“Hi,” she said softly. “How’d you sleep?”

“Great.” It wasn’t a lie. I always slept better on the ground, but waking up in a tent next to Ally Dalbotten was a whole other sensation. One I planned on replaying all day while I stoleglances at the woman who’d be just out of reach for the next two days. “You?”

“Pretty well, once I got settled. You were out cold, greyhound. The mountains speak to you, I can tell.” She pressed her lips closed as though debating whether to admit something. Nodding her head, she whispered like it was a dirty secret, "They speak to me too.”

“I’m glad.” Now it was my turn to smile. “The wilderness looks good on you, Alexandra Dalbotten.” I allowed my gaze to rest on her longer than I normally did, finally taking all of her in—her easy smile, the golden halo of waves that fell around her face, her wide blue eyes that made it hard to view the sky the same way again.

A part of me felt nervous about letting myself think of her as someone I could be with. She still didn’t understand the parts of me I hadn’t let her see, and I wanted to show her, despite the potential consequences.

Just stay in the present. Stop worrying about the future.

It was a radical thought. It felt so easy to be with her that all my fears and what-ifs about the future washed away, leaving me squarely in the present. For the first time, I understood what my therapist meant when she encouraged me to live in the present.

Before now, her words had sounded like...well, words. They seemed like platitudes that people in her field are obligated to say to people who sign up for therapy.

Live in the now.

It didn’t seem sustainable. After all, we need to rely on knowledge of the past and anticipation of the future to help usmake wise decisions. But God, it felt good to forget all of that during each stolen moment with Ally.

Once the kids started rustling about, we went our separate ways, Ally heading over to retrieve the food from where we’d hung it and me divvying up pots and pans to boil water and start cooking breakfast.

From there, we took the kids on a day hike, with me in the lead and Ally bringing up the rear. The park ranger would be at the campsite all day to check on Jayne, who said she was feeling slightly better after a good night’s sleep. She was still running a fever, and I felt grateful to have the extra help on the trip.

From time to time, when I was at the top of a rise, I caught bits of Ally’s conversations with the hikers who brought up the rear. “I like the back of the pack. No pressure to hike fast,” she said. It made me smile after the pace she’d kept leading us up the mountain. But that was her way, always making other people feel better by empathizing.

Every so often I’d glance back and catch a glimpse of her, hair tied back uselessly, strands breaking free of the hairband at every opportunity. She’d swat the strands away like irritating gnats and smile while never breaking stride or stopping her story.

Finally, I stopped the group at a wide lookout point. It was the entire reason for the hike, an earned view of the mountains to the north, a wide expanse of sky, and a deep crevasse below. The park service had installed some railing along the edge, and every student felt the need to push the boundaries by leaning out over it and looking down, where a vast chasm extended so far beneath us, the bottom was invisible.

A waterfall slipped between boulders about halfway down the cliff, crashing down on the rocks and sending a spray upward to where we stood.

The trail continued farther, winding through the trees and eventually dropping down into the valley, but this was our stopping point for today.

There was space for the students to spread out, finding nooks on rocks or fallen logs where they could sit and write in their journals. There was a collective groan when I pulled the stack of black-and-white composition books from my pack and started handing them out. “Oh, come on, this is an English class retreat. You didn’t think I’d bring you to the woods and not have you reflect on Henry David Thoreau, did you?”

More groans preceded some grudging acknowledgement that my assignment did, in fact make sense. As the students took their books and roamed around looking for writing spots, I stole a glance in Ally’s direction. She stood focused on the view.

“You want to do some journaling? I brought extra books,” I said, coming beside her, but leaving about ten feet between us. She turned and smiled.

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