At some point during my educational tenure I read the book Hatchet.
For those of you who aren't privy,
it's a story of a boy whose plane crashes
into a remote lake
in the boundary waters.

He's forced to live off the land
eating grubs, building camp, attempting to survive the cruel wilderness.
Eventually he is rescued and retreats back into his life of modern convenience
and comfort,
but he never forgets his time in the wild.
It sticks in his craw,
and takes up permanent residence in his soul.

That's kind-of-sort-of-I-know-it's-super-hard-to-believe-trust-me how I feel about the great outdoors.
Believe it or not,
I grew up camping.
"Roughing it."
I spent summers sleeping under the stars in a giant teepee.

In my front yard.

And I've always
wanted to spend a week(end) in the boundary waters
with my dad.

Just us
two kayaks
and a couple of backpacks
an old FG and an endless supply of film
(my dad has been a hobbyist photographer for years).

Someday, Dad.

It'll happen.


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