I’m not much of a talker. No, say that differently: I almost never talk. But that’s fine – fine by me, fine by my friends. I don’t need many friends, you see. And the one’s that understand me, well, they’re my closest. My mom used to tell me that the best way to figure out if someone is really your friend is to look them in the eye – don’t say anything – and just ask, with the look, “Are you my friend?” If they understand you, then they are.

I have a friend. His name is Julian, and we do everything together. He understands me, so deeply that I really don’t have to talk, which is fine by me. This doesn’t mean we never talk, just that talk – like giving your little brother a high-five and telling him he’s awesome – is nice, but not necessary. We understand each other. Better than anyone else in the world.

This is the story of two days me and Julian spent together, in the forest, behind his family’s farm. We were doing this thing that Julian called ‘camping’. Oddly enough, it turned out to be more of an extreme survival test than a camping trip. Have you ever read those stories where two great friends save each other’s lives? This is one of them.

Yes, we took our back-packs and our sleeping bags – though, personally, I prefer just a thick pad and blanket – and Julian’s Mom packed us a big, hearty lunch. Beef stew. Boy, did it smell good. Too good, probably.

Down the trail the two of us tromped, carefree and happy to be out of the house.

“Where’ll we go first?” Julian said at lunch-time. He had spread the crinkly, stained old map on a big, flat rock and was perusing it thoughtfully. I walked up and looked over his shoulder. He glanced up at me.

“Uhuh, yep, I know,” he said in reply to the “You said you had a plan,” look on my face. Glancing back down, he walked a hand along one of the winding trails, “I planned the options. Look here: either, we can go to Wall-eye Lake and fish all day – then camp somewhere on Bensen’s Shore. Or there’s this mess of oaks and alders near Five-Stone Pass that Rob saw some raccoons in, night-before-last. We could camp on the plateau after some coon-hunting – get a nice view of the stars. After that, there’s a loop of Jimmy-Joe River with a nice spot for a camp. Ya know, the place we built that raft last year with Michael and Brielle?”

“No rafts,” my look said firmly. Julian only smirked – probably recalling my wild panic from last year – and nodded, “O-K,” he said, and continued, “Last spot would be Old Gibson’s place right next to the Fisherton Mine. Dad said it’s been abandoned since before Grandpa was a squirt. I was thinking we could do some exploring,” ever so slowly his fingers strolled up the trail, past Old Gibson’s and up the mountain. They then stopped, surreptitiously, some two inches below a scrawling name and the figure of bear’s paw, “Or,” he said, offhandedly, “There is the old trail up to Grizzly Peak. Shorter than the rest, probably faster too – and we could camp out at Old Gibson’s just the same.”

A short sigh and I walked around the stone, coming to a stand-still right across from Julian. He didn’t look up – probably because he could sense the “Your Dad said not to go there,” expression on my face. After a long, awkward pause, I indicated my vote towards the south-western-most cluster of trees on the map. Julian glanced up, the grinace on his face plain to see.

“Coon-hunting it is then,” he said and began to roll up the map. I could tell he was disappointed – probably thinking how “Gavus is such a spoil-sport” – but what Dad says goes, and I know how dangerous Grizzly Peak can be.

Julian stowed the map away. He was just about to stand when I jumped up on the rock and, with a grin, shoved him back. Julian sprawled to the ground. When he looked up at me, the surprised expression on his face was priceless. It quickly changed to a grin.

“So that’s how it is?” he said, rising slowly to his knees, “I let you shove me once and you gotta shove me twice?” I didn’t give him time to say anymore, but with a playful growl, tackled him down again.

“It is ON!” he shouted, and we wrestled. We wrestled so long and hard that it must have been around 2:30 in the afternoon before we broke up. Both of us were hot, sweaty and panting for our lives. Julian stumbled to his feet.

“Last one to the Lake washes dishes tonight!” he shouted and took off down the trail. Yep, he was back to being Julian again.

And we raced – it was fun – though I let him beat me. He knew it, and was grateful. After a long swim we had another wrestling-match in the water. Then we set up camp.

“Stars sure are pretty,” Julian breathed. On the bank of the Lake we sat, side-by-side with the fire behind us warming our backs. I sprawled out on my belly and heaved a yawn.

“Guess that means I get first watch tonight?” Julian asked with a half-laugh.

I closed my eyes in agreement. Stars are all right, I suppose, but I was more interested in contemplating tomorrow’s breakfast: leftover beef stew. Maybe that’s why I’m such a realist. Julian will go all dove-eyed over a sky of sparkling lights, while my mind is usually right next to my stomach. Where’s the next meal coming from? Is the food good? How much will there be? Do we have to save leftovers? Yeah, I’m a food person. It’s a wonder I stay so thin.

[here the manuscript ends]