The days we spent in the Sawtooth Mountains above Grand Marais and Lake Superior were beautiful. We left sticky temperatures at home, so the cooler days and nights were a blessing. But we couldn’t linger in the campground because there were too many things to see and do. Every morning we drove from our campsite at Golden Eagle Lodge and Campground https://www.golden-eagle.com/, surrounded by the Superior National Forest, and traveled along the Gunflint Trail where Native Americans, French Voyageurs, miners, hunters, trappers, and loggers came centuries before us. The trail is now a 57-mile National Scenic Byway winding through mountains, lakes, bogs, and valleys. There are no towns along the trail, but turning down side-roads hidden behind pine, birch, aspen, mountain ash, and lakes reveal log resorts, campgrounds, trails, and waterfalls. The Gunflint Trail is a floral, faunal, and geological wonder. Its name came from it leading to a source of chert for flint-lock guns and it is rich in both beauty and heritage. Grand Marais, a beautiful little town tucked between the north shore of Lake Superior and the Sawtooths was a favorite place to return to. We drank coffee in the mornings overlooking the grand lake and watched waves crash upon its rocky shore as we ate lunch from a nearby deck. Throughout the day, we walked the harbor sea wall or hiked around some of the magnificent waterfalls feeding the large freshwater sea. The lake itself is mysterious, mesmerizing. We found ourselves lost in thought every time we were in its presence. It was easy to understand why locals brave the brutal winters and sailors of long ago were drawn to the most spectacular of The Great Lakes. During one lunch of fresh-caught fish from the sea before us, and sitting in a breezy mist, Jim asked in total amazement, “How did you know to find this place? How did you know about it?” That same question has surely been asked over the centuries. Me? I was just looking for a nice place to fulfill the requirements for an internship in outdoor recreation. My university supplied the list of locations looking for fresh, wide-eyed recreation majors, but the Creator of it all put the burning desire in my heart. When it was time to leave the land volcanoes formed and glaciers carved, someone had to hitch the camper and dump the tanks. That someone was me. The same guys who helped us unhook the first night, plus the couple from the campsite right beside us, came by the morning of our departure to give further direction. RV camping is a whole new world and it is filled with others who appreciate the finer things in life like campfires, stars, the sweet smell of the woods, and kindness for their neighbors. Everyone pulled together to get us out of the campsite that last morning. And I must say it took everyone. Each had a different opinion on how I could best hitch that camper to our car while backing and turning uphill. “Did we wake anyone with the fire alarm last night?” “Used your furnace for the first time?” “Yes, yes we did.” One of those small details I didn’t know about. Some kind of toxic chemical burned off the furnace the first time I turned it on, about 10:30 the night before. But waving a towel around helped shut the alarm off a couple of times and by the third series of screeching, it had completely calmed down. Jim didn’t even have to get out of bed as he laughed hysterically. A sense of humor is golden. So, when it was time to back up to the camper hitch, I had to give it a little more gas to get up the slight incline. Too much could be disastrous. Of course, I either gave it too much or let off a little too late. If the sound hadn’t alerted me something went wrong, the five groans would have. I was envisioning the ball on the car pushing the tongue and propane tank into the front of the camper until it reached our murphy bed. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” Whew. I knocked the tongue jack off its blocks. No damage done, but an extra jack had to be brought over to lift the thing. “It looks like those stabilizer jacks could raise it?” Said Lou, the wife of the team from next door. I admittedly didn’t know much, but my RV place had told me twice, the stabilizer jacks were only to stabilize, not lift, or they could break. I shared my limited knowledge. “Oh, okay, I didn’t know that; makes sense,” said Lou, who had previously given me the best advice about backing onto to the hitch: put your jack handle up in the center and look over your shoulder, lining the middle of your car to it. Even the guys admired her advice. Before we finally pulled out of the campsite, I told the group how a very well fed gray wolf crossed the road in front of us just as we were ready to turn onto the campground road last night. We all waved goodbye as I left the campsite and pulled up to the waste station. Then we honked and waved again as we passed them a second time. It took rounding the campsites two times to figure out which side the tank valves were on, just like a 16-year-old with a new driver’s license pumping gas for the first time. I was soon emptying the tanks like a boss. This task went smoothly and I only sprayed myself once–with freshwater, thank goodness! High fives all around. We left early enough not to drive in the dark and the rain until the promise of more waterfalls lured us in. I was forced to back up in one of the parking roundabouts if we were to see one of the falls, and I did. More experience under my belt. All had gone really well and I was learning with every mistake I’d made. By the time we hit Minneapolis, however, I was smacked in the face with darkness and rain and construction. I’m not sure how long a stretch of I-35 was one lane with concrete walls on either side. I’ve now learned Wisconsin and Illinois give drivers plenty of room, putting the concrete walls over the white line. Minneapolis, on the other hand, had them ON the white lines. I drove for what seemed like miles, in pouring rain and glare, in a tiny lane (reduced from four). The speed limit in the construction zone was 60 mph. 60! It was intense and insane. I ended up leading a long parade of traffic as I eventually went from 60 to 43 mph and feeling like I could be on the verge of a panic attack. I’ve never had a panic attack, mind you, but this had to be close. All I could think about was how a flick of the steering wheel could put us into a concrete wall on either side, as I went slower and slower. When the construction ended, the first racecar driver tore around me and laid on the horn. I couldn’t bear to look, afraid I would see a bird frantically flying around in the car in my direction–and rightly so, I thought, but gosh darn, has he never towed anything? It took the next hour back to our son’s house, to calm down. I DON’T EVER WANT TO PULL A CAMPER AT NIGHT, IN THE RAIN, AGAIN. For the next week, we played, held babies, had a birthday party, and went to the zoo. Both our sons, daughters-in-law, and grandbabies were all under one roof for two nights with us and they were the best and sweetest nights of sleep I’ve had in a long, long, time. Ironically, my sister admitted she was terrified of me pulling a camper and how she didn’t sleep that first night we were on the road. She has since conceded it was the right thing to do, our outrunning Alzheimer’s. How could she not; look at my husband’s face: