You walked around camp wearing a beat up Smokey the Bear hat, inside of which you had hidden a digital watch. When anyone asked you what time it was, you took off your hat and held it in the air so as to protect your eyes as you gazed skyward.
"Well, judging by the position of the sun, I'd say it's aboooooout.....three fifty-two."
It was good natured bullshitting like that that kept that up-to-something grin permanently planted on that face of yours. I remember once, you bummed a cigarette off of me. We stood there smoking, and you asked, "Hey man, you ever notice after you smoke a cigarette, you have to take a shit?"
"No, I never noticed that."
"Well, I'm betting you will now I've said something. And from now on, everytime you find yourself heading to the toilet after you smoke, you'll think 'damn you Shane!'"
And with that, you walked off cackling. But hey, you were right, I noticed. My, what an odd memory association to go for.
You came from a long line of bagpipe players. You had a lot of stories that revolved around family, whiskey, and the pipes. Every now and then, I'd hear you playing from somewhere across camp, that big sound echoing over the hills. Once, I was leading a hike, and I caught the sound of them from the trail. As I turned to head up a hill, I realized that we were getting closer to it. I picked up the pace, leading my charges as fast as I could make them go up the hill, the sound getting louder, closer, until finally we came around the last turn, and there you were, standing at the top of the hill, dressed in all your regalia, the sun setting behind you. It was nothing less than a Moment, man. It was goddamn majestic.