Bridge to the Long Cut

Once we pass over the bridge, there’s a choice to be made—the long cut or the short cut. I prefer the short cut, of course; Joan and Shane prefer the long cut. So, I stop on this bridge and hang my head hoping to convince everyone to cut over to the lake where it’s already a long enough walk to the parking lot. On occasion, I get my way.

But, life isn’t always about getting one’s way, and that’s not a bad thing, because every time we take the long cut—which adds maybe another mile to the walk—I forget all about being tired. Wow. So many squirrels, so many strange sounds coming from the trees—creaks and groans and whooshing sounds that we don’t always hear in real life, you know, because of all the cars and people calls.

It’s quite the trip back to the nineteenth or eighteenth century. No donkey carts, though. And no robbers trying to take from the rich to give to the poor. And no inns along the way. But, it sure is peaceful because the only reminder that we’re in the 21st century is the occasional jogger in Spandex.

Best wishes, Juno