Summer is chugging along, with autumn nipping at its heels. We had Christmas in July, with almost all of us in the staff lounge opening thoughtful, artistic, funny homemade presents. Another developing tradition, a couple of us have been quietly stoking the sauna some evenings to enjoy post-dinner roasting, accompanied by lake relief dips on now-awkwardly slimy rocks, as the lake level and sunshine are optimized for algae.
Last weekend, some extra days off (aka fun time days, aka adventure opportunity days) aligned with a friend visiting, and we drove north a few hours to an absurdly scenic hike. Gold Mint Hut at Hatcher Pass transported us to New Zealand: classic u-shaped glacial valley, countless clear creeks to quench your thirst, craggy alpine peaks with giant granite boulders at their feet...! We walked miles alongside a river, hillsides slathered with wildflowers -- violet monk's hood, magenta fireweed, tall nodding grasses. Who knew all that fresh air could make five-day-old grilled hot dogs taste so good?
And since it was my birthday, later we had some grocery store cheesecake in the Hope Point trailhead parking lot. Later, when we finally came back home to the lodge, it was windy and cool, I was dirty and damp, there was a pleasant surprise. Years ago, dozens of times, Matt and I returned from long days sailing to his mom's pasta sauce and meatballs. It's distinctly satisfying and comforting to come in from the glorious and exhausting ocean salt and sand and sit down to a giant pot of food made by a loving Italian woman. So I was really pleased that upon my return a nice little staff dinner was waiting, of spaghetti and meatballs with homemade sauce.
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