We keep the trail-running stuff in a big sealed Tupperware container next to the front door. It’s the usual assortment of lights and vests and fanny packs and handhelds and spare clothes and first aid and baggies and expired gu and duct tape and powders and potions and, oh, you know, trail-running stuff.
When I open the lid, there’s a smell. It’s not good or bad, just a distinctive aroma. It still has a bit of Colorado Bend lingering, and possibly an old 110 somewhere near the bottom. It’s a comforting smell in a trying time. A smell that says hopefully, “Let’s go have an adventure, Daddy-O.”
I love that smell. And I love that container. It can call me Daddy-O anytime.