27 February 2006

The Land of the Next Winter Olympics

At the dinner for niece Anna's's birthday tonight her dad Bjorn reminded me of the time we stayed a couple of weeks in the mountains not so far from where the alpine events will be held four years hence, when the Dope City Olympiad will hit the fan.

He was recovering from a dandy of an industrial accident; I was enjoying one of the many market related lay-offs I have experienced over the years. The week was spent at Bjorn's aunt's rustic cabin during one hot, hot summer. Come to think of it, it was probably the year Dope City had its big stupid Expo people still gush about like teenage girls over a star high school quarterback.

We were dropped off there with supplies for our whole trip. That was one heavy load of beer and whisky that was hauled by 4x4 into the Satanist infested mountains. Satanists? Surely Beer, you must be thinking, you are pulling our motherfucking leg. Years previous to this trip on a hike through the mountains we had indeed stumbled upon the signs of worship of an Anti-Christian Order. If you have ever been somewhere your instincts tell you to vacate immediately you know how we felt that day. The words, "Let's get the fuck out of here," were soon followed by, "And never fucking come back."

We spent our days drinking and swimming.The Satanists were probably back in Dope City figuring out how to attract the Winter Olympics to our neck of the woods. The lake was nearly as warm as our own bodies. We canoed around and tried to coax one of the few remaining trout in the lake to join us for dinner. An eagle tall as a man perched on a tree across the lake. When it flew away it breezed below tree level along the logging road, its wings brushing the forest on either side, in hope of surprizing an animal into joining it for dinner. It was the most majestic eagle I have ever seen.

At night we would take our inebriates up on to the roof where we could marvel at the stars. Us Dope City folk forget what the sky really looks like until we get away from the smog and the lights of home and into the clean air and darkness of the forest.

One day, struck by mild cabin fever at last, we hiked for seven hours return to a fishing resort store. We bought a couple of chocolate bars and hitched a ride into the nearby town where we loaded our packs with more whisky and a few more beers. Bjorn's aunt's cabin could have used a still.

The cabins around that lake are full of dope rich yuppie scum now. The old time hunters and fishers are all but long gone now. Bjorn's uncle built that cabin by hand. Nowadays workers are brought in to construct things for people to get away to in places as close to the money of Dope City as this. I am glad to have spent lots of good times at that lake before they arrived.

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