Boxing Day at Camp Weasel

 The timing of our snowshoe up to Camp Weasel for Tom and Jane's Boxing Day open house was perfect. My friend Linnus and I managed to be outside in just about all of the available daylight, join Tom and Jane for a cold beer and hot venison chili and make it back down to the road before it got too dark. The fresh snow (about two feet, it seemed) was bright, but heavy and wet, especially with the rain. Tom said he figured no one would come in this slop. But when friends hang colored lights (thanks to a generator), pack a trail, and make a pot of chili-- when they invite you to a party, even if it means a two-mile snowshoe in the rain to get there, you go. That's why you are friends. (And we weren't their only ones.) We all sat in the steamy cabin and heard stories of Jane's misadventures on a horse-packing trip in Central America, and of small planes we've been in with pilots who took a little nap in the air, and boats that almost sank, then did sink, and were raised again, and of one ocean crossing when a sailboat  compass was pulled off course by a boom box, but luckily the hazard was caught in time to do no harm, and we laughed and ate and drank and it was nice to be all cozy together in the dripping white woods far from anywhere. When more people arrived we gave up our seats so they could fit inside, pulled on our raingear  and said good-bye and Merry Christmas and Happy Boxing Day and then hiked the long way back around the squishy lake and through the now dim woods, and stopped at the beach at bottom of the hill and admired Viking Cove, flat calm in the gray misty evening, before taking off our snowshoes and helping the dog into the car. 

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