I can almost smell the aroma wafting through camp. The river as slow as bread is to rise. A little flour and water, mixed over a hundred years ago, bubbling in a jar in a dry bag, just waiting to be as beautiful as its surroundings.
"I rolled up some bread and tea in a pair of blankets
with some sugar and a tin cup and set off."
When asked what kind of bread he took to the mountains,
John Muir replied,