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OK, it’s not the Ritz, but it is home

 I escaped this past weekend.

I set up camp in a cathedral of towering cottonwoods on the shores of Lake Wilson.

This was my fortress of solitude, if not for the noisy bass fisherman across the way. But, I was alone with my thoughts.

“What is the meaning of life? Why am I not supposed to remove that silly tag from a mattress?”

Now, this is my idea of camping: My small tent, a small propane stove, a cooler with hotdogs, baked beans and cold IPA; and bicycles.

There is one pot to cook the beans and heat up water ...


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