Sunlight filtering in through the door of the tent, the smell of sausage and eggs wafting through the air.
A myriad of bird calls and serenades.
Foot steps crunching on rocks and twigs.
Voices of scouts--some low and rumbly, others high and excited.
Minty toothpaste, mapley oatmeal and spicy sausage.
The mist choking the mountains from your view.
Three hundred voices pledging allegiance to the flag and reciting the Boy Scout Law.
A little sparrow, flitting through the trees, and a hawk riding the high air currents, circling and gliding until he is lost from our sight.
Cold river water running over your feet, the heat of the afternoon sun burning down on your back and arms.
Careful steps on the mossy river rocks, the feel of minnows nibbling on your toes.
The cheerful chirp of a cricket and the whirr of a wasp.
The cool greens and browns of the forest.
A flash of blue in the tree tops, gone so quickly you wonder if you actually saw anything.
Flinty rocks in uniform layers beside the stream, huge rock bluffs jutting out from the trees.
The insistent tapping of a woodpecker and the rude cawing of the crow.
The poof of a gas lantern being lit and the crackle of a bonfire.
The melodic ring of the bell, twelves times, one for each point in the scout law.
Warm darkness envelopes us as we settle down to sleep and the melody of "taps" echoes around the hills and floats through the night.
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