Yes, our plans have changed once again and a simple question did it, "Wouldn't it make more sense for an old fool to sleep in a cabin on a bed than in a tent atop a slab of bedrock?" I believe the question was directed my way. A part of me thought the questioner was an ignorant fool who didn't know what a splendid specimen of mankind I remain even though I fart every time I rise from a chair. Unfortunately it was my son who asked. Outside of my 14 year old grandson, all of us heading to the border next month have back problems that can pay a visit with no forewarning. Cripples don't make good campers. A single phone call solved the bed problem and a half-dozen others. Call it another of life's demons that can be driven off by throwing money at it—and not much money at that. So now we have a bare-boned cabin with all the conveniences of 1956, plus internet.
Yesterday the Canadians said they still didn't want any of our kind crossing the border till at least July 21. No sweat, we weren't going to anyhow. Our only remaining problem is finding fish in mid-summer. A little research told me it's a crapshoot. Some say do this, some say do that. Our solution is to be ready for anything, hope the wind isn't up, and pack enough food and beer.
Just came back from three days at the cabin with a good friend. We played and canoe-fished like we were still in our thirties and now my body once again tells me chairs are wonderful.
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