Sunday… the dead pain wracked logs that washed up last night with chainsaws stuck on a knot all night try to crawl out to face the day….
Then they get to pack up and try to get home.
Though are there going to be s’mores this evening at the obligatory session of ‘feed the skeeters’????? around the campfire?
No love for deet?
Usually I’m the designated smorgas-blood for every she-skeeter in a ten mile radius unless I take a serious bath in copious amounts of very strong deet. That organic herbal stuff they figure is marinade or spicing of the main course. I wish that I could get on a testing panel for some of that sissy stuff (deep woods off does not have enough go-away power). So campfires are always a session of feed-skeeters unless I’ve doused enough deet or it’s below 40 f and they go hide.
Ah, tasty tasty blood.
Mud then… and you can now hunt predators as well!
Mud doesn’t work. And it tends to fall off then everyone screams. Can’t win.
Kara: “Then let’s drop them off at the tent and go do the run again!”
Hubris: “How do we get to the camp at the end of the ride?”
Kara: “We tie the van to the back of the kayak. Duh.”
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