Nothing like a down jacket . . . .

Last night I dug out one of my favorite down jackets from the depths of what resides under my bed. I'm positively giddy about it, as it means that winter is coming . . .as is snow. (For Al, it's flannel sheets.) I put it on, savored all of its fluffy and warm comfort, and took in the smells of old Thistledew campfires. So divine! Memories flooded back of moonlight lit solo journeys in the snow across lakes to check on girls (avoiding areas around beaver dams), roasting frozen mozzarella cheese and beef sticks over the fire before bed--laughing and ranting over the antics of the day, sawing so much wood and taking down live birch trees to set up the base for the fire . . .and skies so clear, clearer than summer nights in the boundary waters. And the wolf tracks; waking up in the morning to know that you and the girls were not alone during the night. All that wildlife business, given away by snow.

Loving all of it so deeply . . . .

And the jacket, with its elbow bandaged with ripstop repair tape (due to an incident with the wood burning stove in one of the cabins)--I wouldn't have it any other way.