Let’s go back in time to 1986. I was ten, parents divorced, so dad took us on biking and camping trips woth family friends (all teenagers except little Kelley tagging along, listening intently to the adults’ goings-on). From Indiana to Ely, Minnesota, we traveled to canoe the Boundary Waters from land port to island port and beyond, and I loved not having to carry the canoes, a wanderer by nature.

Fish fried, dishes done, food packs all hung in the tall trees just outside of our tents…

No kidding, a loud rustling outside our tent, I tensed every muscle when yelling and banging on pots and pans startled me enough to get out of the tent, and there’s a black bear, sauntering away on all fours, still must have been over my dad’s head, dragging our food packs torn from high up, strewn bitten or eaten in a maze across the forest floor.

We had little to eat, but the memory is a story passed down through the ages. The greatest part was something odd. I started drinking coffee at ten because there wasn’t anything thing else the rest of the days we camped.

By far the best vacation I could fathom.

The feeling of getting lost in the forest is a piece of my puzzle…Just nature and the self praying over the sights, sounds, and presence of Truth through peace, solitude, and connection over a fire.

Going back was always a dream, maybe Canada, dad says most beautiful places he’s ever been were there.