The Mountains in July
The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, as I trudged back from a long day of hiking and fishing in the July heat. My muscles ached, my skin was gritty with sweat and dust, and the faint smell of fish clung to my hands. It was time to wash the day away. I knew just the spot—a bend in the river where the water had polished the rocks smooth over countless years, creating a perfect natural bath.
I waded out to mid-thigh, the current tugging gently at my legs. The river, fed by snowmelt from the distant mountains, was a crisp 60°F—cold enough to jolt my senses but perfect for cutting through the sticky summer humidity. I took a deep breath and dunked under, the chill enveloping me like a reset button. Underwater, I ran my hands vigorously through my hair, feeling the sweat and grime loosen and drift away with the current. I surfaced, gasping, and stood there for about 15 minutes, scrubbing my skin and letting the river’s steady flow rinse away the day’s labor. The cool water was invigorating, a quiet moment of renewal amidst the rush of the wilderness.
Refreshed, I made my way back to the campsite, my damp clothes clinging but my body feeling light. The air was warm, and the hum of cicadas filled the evening. I set to work building a fire, stacking kindling and logs with practiced ease. The first sparks caught, and soon the flames were roaring, casting a golden glow against the lengthening shadows. I fed the fire steadily, watching it grow until a solid bed of coals pulsed beneath the logs. It was time to cook.
I seasoned a steak—simple, just salt and pepper—and set it over the coals on a small grate. The sizzle and scent of searing meat mingled with the smoky aroma of burning wood. When the steak was done, charred just right, I tossed a couple more logs on the fire, coaxing it back to a lively blaze. I settled onto a worn camp chair, a cold beer in one hand, my plate in the other. The stars were out now, a glittering canopy overhead, sharper and brighter than any city sky could ever offer.
—I cut into the steak, the first bite bursting with flavor, paired perfectly with the crisp bite of the beer. Each moment—the crackle of the fire, the cool night air, the taste of the meal—felt like a gift. Out here, under the vast July sky in the mountains of New Hampshire, it was just me and the wilderness. It was perfect. Good for me. Good for my soul.