We spent a night camping in the redwoods, cooking meals on the fire and propane stove, drinking pumpkin cider and California beer. I pulled some beets from Molly and Steve's garden before we left, which we roasted with sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, and a big hunk of butter. We wrapped it all up in foil and threw it right on the coals, a little nervous about the technique, but so pleased with the outcome.

It quickly became dark and I had to put on extra layer, digging into my clothing reserve, which was running low. We ate s'mores next to the fire, surrounded by all of that black, all of that silence and one owl. I got too cold, as I do, and retired to the tent to read a little by the lantern. Sam watched the fire die down, and we both fell asleep to falling redwood needles on the tarp—just like those on the table above. It sounded just like rain.

The next morning, Sam fried up eggs and bacon in the cast iron—which he's so good at—while I walked around the park drinking my coffee. We ate breakfast sandwiches, packed up, hiked a six mile trail, and then headed toward the coast.