The computer printer spits out another page from my “travel to do” list. I grab it and read.
Eg g s…b a con…cof fe e… bread…my checklist goes on and on.
My husband, the dogs and I are spending a few days in the wilderness in the RV, and we are leaving tomorrow.
In the name of efficiency, I’ve made a check list of food items and another of clothing and toiletries items. Glancing at the list that I thought so efficient a month ago, I now wonder, how much bacon did I leave in the RV refrigerator and is the bread I left in the freezer stale?
A quick jaunt to the RV discloses a lack of salt and paper towels, and the bread indeed is stale.
I make another list labeled “groceries,” which means a drive into Grand Marais tomorrow to finish stocking the RV.
I wash a load of clothes, measure and pack dog food, decide which books to bring, throw clothes in the dryer and trek between house and RV, checking items and packing as I remember them.
That night as I collapse into bed, I suddenly remember to bring my raingear so jot another item on my “to bring” list.
Friday morning arrives, along with more chores; remembering to throw flip flops in my backpack, a trip to town to buy items guaranteed to make the weekend more fun—tortilla chips and dip, diet Coke, limes and tonic.
“Why do I go to all this trouble to get away when staying home would be so much easier?” I ask myself as I huff and puff on yet another trip up and down the basement stairs.
Finally at 11:15 a.m., I allow the dogs to jump into the RV, wedge another roll of toilet paper into the storage cabinet and click it shut.
With a smooth surge of the engine, we leave the driveway. I collapse, feeling exhausted, into my seat. Will this be worth all the preparation?
A touch of late summer lies over the Gunflint Trail. Ragweed is blooming. Yellow tinges the edges of butterfly bush plants. Soon we turn off the Trail and onto a less traveled road.
Eventually, we reach our destination. Here I spend another hour working; setting up the kitchen area, organizing the food, covering the sofa with a doggie blanket.
Finally it’s time to relax. I sprawl in a lawn chair, sip a cold beverage and look up at the clear blue sky. There is no phone jangling (cell phone service doesn’t work here). No need to check my email (no Internet service either). No television noise bleats in the background. No electricity.
Sweet silence fills my ears. The occasional bird twitter and rustling birch leaves are part of the sweet silence.
Was all the work worth it? Oh yes.
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