Despite her friendly offer, we had to wait until morning to check out Frieda's campsite. I tossed and turned, wishing I was at Crew's having spaghetti, Sunday coming and going as early Monday dawned clear and cold. With the bridge still under repair and enough flotsam clogging the water way from the continuing degradation of the dam, we were stuck on the mountain anyway, so I made the best of it.
I could have stayed at the retreat and let Jill take care of this, but it really was a make work project as far as I was concerned. She seemed to agree, though she did insist I wasn't to go alone. Which led to Bill trailing along behind me, Moose snuffling his way through the brush, while Frieda led the way, quiet on her feet. I felt like a bumbling gargantuan invader, snapping and crackling my way through the morning quiet woods as the massive man and dog and the bulky older woman drifted like smoke through the underbrush.