“Packing my dry bag, sitting in a broken down camp, gives me anxious uncertainty. Not about the wind or the paddle but about what I am returning to. Theres so much friction in the gears of days, I need to simplify the design. The fewer working parts, the less there is to go wrong.”

“

https://crookedblueline.com/2011/11/01/892/

https://crookedblueline.com/2011/11/01/888/

“Time is an enormous, long river, and I’m standing in it, just as you’re standing in it. My elders are the tributaries, and everything they thought and every struggle they went through and everything they gave their lives to, and every song they created, and every poem that they laid down flows down to me – and if I take the time to ask, and if I take the time to see, and if I take the time to reach out, I can build that bridge between my world and theirs. I can reach down into that river and take out what I need to get through this world”

https://crookedblueline.com/2011/11/01/886/

…You can always find art in its folds

I can almost smell the aroma wafting through camp. The river as slow as bread is to rise. A little flour and water, mixed over a hundred years ago, bubbling in a jar in a dry bag, just waiting to be as beautiful as its surroundings.

“I rolled up some bread and tea in a pair of blankets
with some sugar and a tin cup and set off.”
When asked what kind of bread he took to the mountains,
John Muir replied,
“Just bread.”