Today, I am sitting at my table and reflecting on how lucky I am. I live in a beautiful place, work with wonderful people, and am surrounded by amazing friends.

The last month and a half has been a whirlwind of joy. Four of the last six weekends have focused on music. Two shanty sings at The Press Room, the Portsmouth Maritime Folk Festival, the pre-Getaway gathering at Sinsull's, and the Getaway itself. The joy that singing with others brings heals my raveled nerves and soothes my soul. And introducing someone new to that joy has been satisfying, too. Besides the music, another circle of friends has gathered me into their fellowship. An autumn party with good food, good company, excellent conversation, and adorable puppies was another reminder of my wealth of friends.

This past week was the jewel in the crown, though. It says a lot about one's work environment when one chooses to spend time with one's co-workers when off-duty. One of my fellow rangers has access to a 125 year old family camp on a private island on an inland lake. We are privileged to be his guests in that little piece of paradise once a year. There are only two ways to get there, by boat or by hiking in five miles and fording a stream to get to the island. We hike, as Bandit comes with us, and a nervous dog in a canoe is never a good idea. The hike in goes through a cedar/pine/hemlock forest that has grown up around ancient, mossy boulders left by the glacier during the last ice age, skirts the lake, and arrives at a marshy area with the stream. Some years there is a lot of water, some years it's dry. The trail crosses the stream and one arrives on the island. There is a peacefulness that is immediately noticeable: at least seven generations' worth of happy memories and good times have made this a place out of time, a realm apart from the ordinary.

There is no electricity, no cell phone service, no radios. There are shelves and shelves of books, cupboards filled with games, and a huge trestle table in a large dining room. All beckon one to interact with one's companions directly. Without all the modern conveniences, one quickly falls back into older, more natural rhythms: firewood must be cut and split by hand, water hauled from the lake, the fire tended to lest it go out. Time has little meaning there, we woke when the sun rose, ate when we were hungry, sat in front of the fire in conversation, played games by the light of the gas lights, and went to bed when we were tired. Everyone fell naturally into chores: Andy splitting wood with maul and wedges, myself doing dish duty, Michael being the host and knowing where everything was and how things worked, Jenn mastering the use of the percolator. Cooking was a communal affair, whoever emptied the water filter for drinking water immediately refilled it, the water pitcher was kept full.

When our short time came to an end, we left things clean and tidy, the wood box next to the fireplace full, and everything they way we found it. I like to think we added to the aura of happy memories and good times that envelop the island and that the next person to arrive there gets as much peace and contentment as we did.