Beer and camping outweigh sore fingers

We’re in Sydney…Canada. Man it feels good to be in civilization, that first cold beer goes down like water from the gods bestowed upon famished thirsty souls. We’ve already found it entertaining to order the biggest meals on the menu and smile while the waitstaffs’ jaws drop as we scarf it in one sitting, lick our plates clean, and order another beer.

We are all sunburnt, Zach who joined us in Anacortes, is no exception. He keeps commenting on his exceptionally tan hands and knuckles that are slightly swollen from salt water, paddling, and various other insults that are inherent on a trip such as this. Our poor hands are in the worst shape, finger tips so sore they whine for sympathy as they display bloody hangnails on every other finger and splinters burrowed and nested deep in the rest.

But I have to say it’s worth it to pull up to an island campsite at 7 at night. The island like some kind of tiny paradise so small literally 50 steps would traverse its entire expanse. But in this tiny paradise was still room for a lush grassy plain big enough to set our tents on and a forrest dense enough to hide a doe and her two tiny fauns from lil’ bit’s predetorial instincts. As the sun dropped that night it left a bright orange streak that lit the sky and reflected into the ocean pointing to our tents as if to say you were never supposed to find this.