Butter Pot Provincial Park
Yesterday Good Man and I took a very scenic route to Witless Bay. We stopped at Butter Pot Provincial Park. I wanted to hike a bit but Good Man was afraid of getting lost.
“Your mother did you wrong,” I said, “by not taking you camping as a kid. We’re not going to be whacking down bushes. There are trails.”
“When?” I challenged him.
“I camped with the Boy Scouts in front of school and I went to Boy Scout Jamboree in Korea. Didn’t I tell you? That is when I met first foreigner.”
“Camping at school is not camping.”
Good Man protested that it was, until he saw people in the park, camping. “Oh, that is camping.”
Butter Pot’s Beach
We did end up taking a very short walk to a lookout point (a huge rock). On the way there, a fallen tree blocked the trail. “We can not go, look,” Good Man joked.
“You walk around it or over it.”
“Oh, you are very clever,” Good Man laughed.
Lookout Point Rock
When I was a kid, my parents were big into outdoorsy stuff. (When I refer to “my parents,” depending on the context I could mean Mom and Dad, Mom and Stepdad, or all three. In this post “my parents” means “all three” of them.)
Trespassing and camping near the Mississippi River (Dad), spending nearly every weekend on the family’s land in Pine City (Mom and George), traveling around the Southwestern United States in a big van (Dad), fossil hunting (Mom and Dad at different times), touring caves (all three in difference configurations), star gazing at local parks (Mom and George), sleeping alone outside under the stars with no tent when I was 12 (Dad, and I think Mom wanted to throttle him when she found out)—friends would go the amusement parks and the beach during the summer, but we would always go camping.
Cupids, Site of the First English Settlement in Canada (1610)
The thing is, while it was mostly interesting, it was also boring. One could only read so many books on a trip. And when it rained? Oh lord, my poor parents.
From the time I was 12 or so I knew that I would get out of Minnesota and I would live in big cities. When I was 15 or so, I was determined to live somewhere outside of the US at some point. In my adult life I have lived in or in the inner-city suburbs of Atlanta, Seoul, and DC.
I consider myself a big city girl.
So what the hell is up with the vacations with Good Man to a horse B&B, Gotland, Jejudo, and Newfoundland? What’s up with all of the hiking (even if we’re not camping)?
Good Man says, “Really you are country girl at heart.”
Or maybe it’s that I’m a rainy, windy, broody, grey-skied island girl.
Thin Soil, Spongy Moss and Lichen