Every other year or so Celine and I meet up for an adventure. Last time, she came to Holland and we filled our days with herring and poetry walks and Belgian beer and songwriting. Friendship with this girl feeds me.
And so two days after I sunburned my legs kayaking in the San Francisco Bay, I was pulling on long underwear and strapping my feet into snowshoes.
A few hours up the trail, we sank into the edge of a snow-covered lake and ate smoked oysters from a tin. And tried our hilarious best to dampen the raucousness of our laughter in case the snow caked on the side of the cliff decided to have a go at us.
Pristine means Kananaskis in April.
The Man was one bottle of maple whiskey richer on my return home, and I was six days of Celine richer. Few can riff on a banjo, wear an 80’s blazer, or make me feel so comfortable in my own skin quite so well as she.
Had they been contemporaries, I’m convinced she would be J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis’ gal pal too. Her belief in the kind and thoughtful gesture, and her love of literature and philosophy.
And tobacco, of course.