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Sketched from fond early teenage memories of trips with my fly fishing enthusiast father, my rustic-camp hating mother, and my little brother, to Dad's favorite destination – Lake Hihium – way atop a mountain near Cache Creek, British Columbia. My poor mother detested wood stove heating and cooking, washing up in cold water from a hand pump, campfire smoke and ice in a block in a cooler. I LOVED all of it (and still do). I also loved the echo of loons at sunset, the coyotes wailing on the hill in back, falling asleep to the gentle lapping of lake water, the fwoomp of swooping nighthawks, and the wind sighing through the tall pines. I loved every chipmunk and every squirrel, the bears who raided the fish cooler, the creatures that ratted around on the roof at night, the various moose who would swim the lake from shore to shore, the horses I sometimes got to ride, and, of course, one of the wranglers (who brought us ice every day and checked to see the bears hadn't eaten US.)
I did not then, and do not now, love fishing. Or the cold lake full of leeches. But, my Canadian memories have lingered for over 50 years.
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