Canoe-Palooza Part One

I have only just now realized that I left for vacation, leaving you for almost 2 weeks in the wake of my last post. I apologize for that, especially given the all but joyous subject matter of the preceding blog post. The only way I think I may be forgiven is with a more upbeat and hopefully pithy account of my latest experiences.

First, some basic facts of my whereabouts of the last 10ish days:
1. What: Canoe/ backpacking trip
2. Where: Minnesota
3. With whom: My father, aunt, and grandfather
4. Why: Tradition**
**More on this later

Now that the scene is set, let me start to fill in the details.

Every year for approximately the last decade some part of my father's family has taken a canoe trip to the Canadian boundary waters in Minnesota. They paddle around for about a week fishing and camping and singing kumbaya by the fire (okay, that last part isn't true, this isn't girl scouts). Until this year, all that meant was that my dad missed back-to-school-night (not that I cared, but those are the facts of the case). This year, with UW not starting until late September, and honestly, nothing better to do, I decided to accept my father's invitation and thus finally join yet another family tradition(**).

In the weeks preceding our embarkation, there was the usual languid preparation. My father vaguely directed me in how to pack and my mother, in a very mother-like-fashion proceded to drop money on me. Not that I'm complaining. We tore through REI with an intensity not seen in this day and age (literally, on the day we shopped no one of the age of 19 was buying anything at REI). Then, one day while I was going on a walk with my folks, my mother broached a subject I had been waiting for ever since I first agreed to go on the trip, many moons ago now. "There comes a time in every woman's life..." she said with a sort of wise austerity in her tone; "...when one must get their first pair of Birkenstocks. Ah yes, it was true, when Birkenstocks are involved, at least in this family, you know it is no laughing matter. My father nodded in somber agreement and I looked with wonderment to the heavens-- had my time really come?

Well... ANYWAY-- skipping any more of the drama of preparation we finally disembarked for Minnesota.

It became clear early on that nothing happened on this trip that wasn't a tradition** (here it comes). Everything-- and I do mean everything-- is a tradition. The first coupla days are spent trekking from the Minneapolis airport to the boundary waters, stopping to visit a relative (some sort of cousin who is almost disturbingly like the rest of my father's family even with the extreme distance and the once a year encounters with the lot of us).

Once we get to the canoeing part of the trip things get ever more exciting. I am currently writing this long hand in a journal I brought along and I do indeed intend on transcribing this all on the interwebs for your reading pleasure. It is the second the second day of paddling, but I think for the first installment this will do. Tomorrow will be part two.