All I can recall were the nuances of the day: the long, silent drive to camp; the sound of windshield wipers whizzing and the whoosh of passing traffic; the heavy, contemplative pauses between each track on our mix cd; and the moments when I could swear he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Then there were the quiet moments at camp: the silent, but comfortable, pauses between us as we fulfilled our customary roles; the sound of John chopping wood, building our fire, preparing dinner; and the sound of me shuffling gear, assembling our tent, and arranging our temporary home.

At night, I recall the sound of snow hitting the fabric of our tent; the controlled sound my pencil would make against the pages of my notebook; the calm and familiar sound of John breathing beside me; his deep, guttural sighs as he fell to sleep; and then, finally, the feeling of absolute stillness; the feeling of knowing that I’m exactly where I should be.

(Here’s a quick video of the day. Check it out.)