This is what we do.

A few Sunday afternoon's ago, we took a drive up into the mountains above Caleb's parents house, and they came along too. The Uinta National Forest resides up there.

It was beautiful man.

We had a picnic dinner.

Food always tastes better in the mountains.

Maybe it's because you've worked up more of an appetite.

Maybe it's because it's abnormal to not eat indoors at a kitchen table with chairs and fake lighting and manners.

I think it's actually because in the mountains, your senses are more alive. Your lungs are full of fresh air, your ears are full of natural noise (whoever said it's quiet in the mountains has never been in the mountains) and your eyes are overwhelmed with the view.

No wonder your food tastes better.

And now, since I'm feeling in the mood, I'd like to share with you a poem that I memorized way back when I was still mentally capable of memorization. I wish I knew who wrote it, I even tried just now to find it online so I could give proper credit to the Author, but I'm not coming up with anything. So just know that I did not write this, but I love whom ever did.

And it makes me want to shut up about trying to describe how much I love mountains, and just look at them and be grateful. Which is good.

When you marvel at the mountain,

pen no rhapsodic lines

descriptive of it's battlements,

it's shadowed peaks and pines.

The mountain who has stood

through a million years of stress

shrugs off the pallid phrases

the futile wordiness.

Make obeisance in awed silence,

there is naught to speak about.

God said all there was to say

the day he carved it out.

I think Caleb feels the same way.