Last weekend, Kristine and I went to her company's annual summer campout. Every year, the employees and their families pitch tents at a lake where the company's former owner has a cottage (it's a small company) and settle into a weekend of swimmming, relaxing, eating and drinking, with the occasional organized game or corny competition thrown in. It's a good bunch of people.
This gathering has a history of coinciding with adverse weather. There were weekends when it rained heavily, when it was oppressively hot, or when unseasonable cold kept everyone out of the water and in sweatshirts and caps. This time was the charm. Saturday presented us with the Platonic form of a summer day: pleasantly warm, but not boiling; very low humidity; a clear sky with the slightest traces of cloud; a gentle breeze blowing off and on, enough to put sparkling ripples on the lake but not so much you couldn't leave a paper plate unattended; the evening just cool enough to make a campfire comfortable.
I suppose there are such days sprinkled throughout the summer, but I'm too seldom in a position to enjoy them, or to be aware of them for that matter. Sometimes going to Summer Camp seems more like an obligation than a vacation, but I'm grateful I went this year, if only to witness a day like that.
Now, that day seems even better in retrospect, since I have to put together my presentation on incorporating mapping into writing assignments by this Friday. What lies ahead isn't nearly as much fun as the part where I went up to Grayling to reseach the Mason Tract. It is likely going to be a very quiet week here.
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