Sometimes a man discovers he has been traveling extensively without actually going anywhere worth mentioning, and this is one of those times. In the last forty-eight hours, we have crossed two states, wandered through three counties, eaten in four restaurants, visited five towns, and entered so many stores and shops that I have lost the ability to distinguish between commerce and punishment.

This doesn’t include grocery stores and mercantile stores for the necessities that our little cabin near Hunter Creek, in its charming isolation, failed to provide.

We are tired. Not ordinary tired, either.

We are so tired that we are looking at a chair with the reverence ordinarily reserved for religious monuments. Yet, strangely enough, we are in a good humor.

This is one of the great mysteries of human existence: a person may spend two days driving, shopping, eating, visiting, and generally wearing himself down to the consistency of an old boot, and still report that he is having a splendid time. I suppose civilization depends upon this sort of dishonesty.

Much of our activity has been devoted to visiting people not seen for years—some since high school, or long enough ago that hairstyles of the period have become evidence in historical investigations. Sunday dinner with old friends was particularly fine.

There is something wonderfully comforting about sitting across a table from people who knew you when you were young and therefore possess information that could, under the wrong circumstances, ruin your reputation forever. Fortunately, age has made us all too tired to exploit it.

We have been so busy traveling from one point to another that we nearly had to schedule our relaxation in advance. But there was a salmon to attend to—a freshly caught Klamath River salmon, taken at noon the previous day and destined for the grill.

We built a fire, heated the pit until it looked capable of melting the sins of several generations, and cooked that magnificent fish. Afterward we sat around the fading flames, enjoying one another’s company in silence.

Smoke follows beauty, or so the saying goes. I have spent considerable time considering this proposition, and I can report that smoke follows everybody.

Beauty may receive the blame, but smoke is an equal-opportunity nuisance. It found every one of us, including our clothing, our hair, and apparently decided the best way to commemorate a pleasant evening was to make sure we smelled like a small campfire until next Thursday.

I now ask myself: Should I retire, allowing the fragrance of grilled salmon and wood smoke to accompany me through the night, or should I take a shower? The shower represents civilization, the bed represents surrender, and at my age, surrender has acquired certain practical advantages.

Then there is Buddy.

I came inside only after Buddy had already retreated from the porch. He was increasingly nervous because the neighborhood dog’s barking had developed into a sort of canine parliamentary debate. Somewhere in the middle, another voice tried to participate in the discussion but failed magnificently to sound like a dog.

The choking, barking, coughing, or whatever finally became clear to my ear. Buddy had apparently reached the same conclusion I had: some mysteries of the night are best investigated from indoors.

He came back outside, stood at the top of the porch steps, and gave me a look that required no translation. It said plainly, “Hey, stupid. You coming in or what?”

I came in. Folks may ignore the wisdom in his life, but when the dog speaks plainly, the sensible person listens.