Sweat drips down my neck reminding me it’s 102 degrees out, not that the rest of my face and everything else doesn’t feel it too.
I set my pack down and am caught by the simple softness of the denim. The harsh roughness of the zipper. The strange light, leather like fabric that gives a damp sensation to the touch.
My old pack has worn patches where I wrung my fingers when I get nervous or scared. I feel each individual stitch caressing the fabrics around it.
This bag may look complicated or even simple, but just looking at you’re missing the unbelievable memories that have seeped into the fabrics over the years of rumbling storms, ice age winters, and boiling summers.