Weekends are meant for trading in endless streams of highway cars for the uninterrupted serenity and silent sounds of rustling needles from tall pines. It’s an instant sigh of relief. Until, your forehead is swiped by the dog’s cold wet tongue. With a bit of rest from the long drive last night, I tend to the fire – grabbing a poker stick and mixing around some red embers remaining from breakfast.
White smoke begins billowing from the ashes as I crumple a few napkins and toss on a few pieces of kindling. It’s an afternoon walk down an old dirt road; a swim in a clean, cool stream that runs across the mountains; a cold beer watching the sun set in on a country night that makes me happy to be out here in the Maine Woods.