Tuesday, August 10, 2010
It had been disgustingly hot all day and we’d been standing in line in the sun or standing on ship decks in the sun. The only shade was what was created by other people standing near us or the brief darkness as we slipped below decks on the HMS Bounty.
But very cool, all that rigging and the sails and the guy dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow.
Upon returning to our campground I bicycled up to the bathroom, eager to shower off the sweat and grime of the day. The showers require quarters. 8 of them, for three minutes of water. I soak my washcloth in the sink and scrub the important parts. Then I stick my head under the faucet and shampoo my hair in the sink. Take that, stupid campground.
We head north to Gooseberry, set up our tent, crack a couple of beers, and char some hamburgers over the fire. Ahhh, perfect.
Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening!
We sprint with our deck of cards and our annual camping Rummy 500 Tournament to the campground shelter where I proceed to beat the mister rather soundly. This never happens.
We later discover that our tent is waterproof to a point. That point is 3 hours in to an all-night thunderstorm. The tent springs a leak right over the mister’s head. I find this hilarious. The mister does not.
We’ve spent a day hiking and walking and dipping our toes in the Gooseberry River. We’ve had our beers and our charred hot dogs and played our nightly game of rummy, where I lost. I knit on the sweater I brought, the only knitting I packed to make sure I would FINISH IT, as it was supposed to be a 30th birthday gift for the mister. His 31st birthday is in a month.
We’re in bed in our tent and the mister is sound asleep. So soundly that he doesn’t hear the clankity-bang of critters getting into our trash because we forgot to tie it up and put it in the pick-up. I get up and scare away a pack of raccoons.
He sleeps with noise canceling ear plugs when we camp. I’m not that brave. I’m afraid that I won’t hear the creepy serial killer sneaking up on us. Because serial killers totally hang out in state parks on the North Shore.
It’s a foggy morning and we’re strolling along the shore, watching the fog eddy and flow over the rocky outcroppings. The mister spots something in the distance. One of the tall ships we’d toured earlier in the week, sliding out of the fog on the lake. Eerie and awesome. We sit for the better part of an hour, watching the ship.
We’re touring Split Rock Lighthouse and suddenly I look at the mister.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s our anniversary.”
“Happy anniversary,” he replies.
We forget again ten minutes later.
He goes mountain biking. I do not. I hate mountain biking and, frankly, am eager for a little respite from the run-go-do-see-hike-busy-busy-busy approach the mister has to vacations. He’s not much for relaxing, that one, and I am. So I stick my knitting and a granola bar in my pack and hike up the river for a mile or two until I find the perfect ledge over-looking the river, with a flat spot for sitting and a rock perfect for resting my back. I settle in, pull my knitting out of the bag, and have a glorious hour of peace and calm.
We sit in traffic on 35 southbound, sunburned and tired, our gear packed and stuffed in the bed of the pickup.
He rolls his head towards me, “Good vacation?”
I grin and slip my fingers into his. “Great vacation.”