We're going camping this coming weekend to a place we like to go in the spring.
These are photos of prior trips.
Our campsite in the desert -
www.outdooroutlet.com/SS/wpockets/camp10.jpgSunrise
www.outdooroutlet.com/SS/wpockets/catcus11.jpgThis was taken in 2005 when there was more rain - the flowers were out in the desert.
www.outdooroutlet.com/SS/wpockets/Flowers14.jpgIn some places there is a lot of native american rock art.
www.outdooroutlet.com/SS/wpockets/rockart13.jpgLook in the highlighted area for the twins secret camping spot - you can see the top of their tent. This is a flat sandy spot that is easy to get to.
www.outdooroutlet.com/SS/wpockets/whitney_camp12.jpg We leave Thursday Afternoon. Hopefully the weather will be nice. (meaning no wind.)
SLH, I hope you make the move. It doesn't hurt for life to move at a little slower pace.
2long, it is getting crowded here, but there are still lots of places close by where it is not. Just depends on what you want. My commute time to work has increased in recent years from 5 minutes to 7 minutes. I suppose I won't complain.
There are lots of nice cabin spots in the mountains close to OOSP.
Weaver, I tend to think you'll be happy no matter what. I think it comes from inside, not outside..... and you "got it."
Faithful,
Doesn't matter what he does. You "got it" too, and you know you do. You will make it........... and not JUST make it, you'll do well. Give it a little more time, and you'll see.
Gray, I have been thinking about your comments.
Maybe you just need someone to read to you.
The Day is Done
THE DAY is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
SS
