An ever evolving list … and in no particular order.
The smell of a campfire, pine-needles, melting chocolate with oozing marshmallows and a hazy west coast style IPA
The way a fresh French croissant feels as you pull it apart; soft and light and flaky but not brittle, smelling of fresh yeast and butter as it melts in your mouth bite after bite
The wind in my hair and the spray on my face as we skid our small boat across the lake on a sunny days with tall white clouds scanning the treeline for eagles and the water for jumping fish that we will never catch
The bustle of a train station – with towering vaulted ceilings and simmering, whistling trains, the smell of grease and salted snacks and the buzz of humanity racing or milling or pondering about and the wonder of each story and where they’re all coming from or going to
The way the sunset turns the Adriatic into stained glass as it ripples under the dancing colors of the sky, letting the heat of the day turn into dusk and listening to the sound of the Sea Organ
Hunting for agates as the golden sun goes down over the Pacific highlighting the translucent orbs and listening to the tinkle of the rocks as the ocean brings them in and takes them away again over and over and over in its tireless effort to continue the earth’s geologic evolution.
The way the silky soft stingray bodies feel as they glide beneath your fingertips waiting to be fed bits of shrimp, circling their endless pool in the heat of the saguaro desert.
Steamy midwestern summer games of whiffleball, water balloons and slip-n-slide followed by throwback winters filled with snow days and endless afternoons of sledding broken up only by breaks for hot chocolate and to dry out before hitting the hill again.
Waking up to a late summer morning on a remote Canadian lake finding it cool enough to put on your flannel and tip toe across the rocks and pine needles down to the dock to where the boat lies quietly waiting to gurgle to life spitting out its oil and gas fumes as it churns you across the silent lake where the mist rises in little swirling bits of cloud and the smell of potatoes and bacon wafts across the water.
After a long and searingly hot Dubai kind of day, dipping your toes into the bathwater along the coast and feeling like you could just melt into the deep purple dusk.
Coming full circle at any moment and just taking it all in (again) … and so I will start at where it all began – or at least at where this part started; the adoption of Griz.
punkTREKS 