Vignette: Salmon Creek
6:30 AM: I'm slowly waking up, eyes peeling open, revealing the cedar wood that we spent so many hours installing.
I stretch out my toes and feel rustling next to me, as Richmond rolls out onto the plywood floor to start the day. We still haven't sealed it, and it's littered with sand and dirt from recent adventures. Needless to say, it's hard to keep feet clean.
Feeling the heat building as the sunlight starts to stream over the hill above us, I throw off the plush comforter. I've already started to sweat. The solar panels are probably at half power already. Richmond fires up the green Coleman camp stove to prepare for breakfast.
I rub my eyes and climb off of the loft. I lift up the bed. Sea lions arf in the distance, slumped on the rocks below and out of sight. I pop in my contacts, slide into my slippers. The smell of our leftovers wafts through the air and suddenly, I'm more awake. Just the smell of the food is invigorating, though my contacts could have something to do with it too...
I slip into my puffy Thermoball. The fog is moving fast and delivering a fresh chill off of the water. Richmond hands me some coffee and I hoist myself on top of the van to take in the view. The sun is casting a perfect ring of light across the mist, forming almost a halo. I snap some photos with my phone and I tell him what I can see: not much. Just the lonely peak of a large, offshore rock that probably is the lounging spot for those barking sea lions. It's classically splatter-painted with seabird poop.
I take a deep breathe. I can't see much, but what I can see is refreshing. It's not the city sidewalk that I open my door to every morning on the way out to work. It's not the freeway traffic that's lined up in front of me on my daily commute to South San Francisco. It's not the same desk that I plop down in at the office to tackle projects. It's so much more than that, and also less at the same time. It's just what I want to wake up to everyday.