OK, I'm back but I don't know for how long.

Dave and Betti have been our friends for many years now. They're the camping types. You know, tents in the rain, outhouses a quick dash through the dark, bundle up good cause it gets cold sleeping on the ground types.

My wife prefers five-star hotels, but the cabin is OK, because it's a tradition from as far back as her childhood. And me, well, my motto has always been "luxury is barely adequate." So it's strange that Dave and Betti are our friends, but they are.

So they schedule to go camping at the same time we're up north and join us for a couple of days. Usually around Tuesday afternoon they show up and then head further north about Thursday noon. We eat and play cards or some other games and the rest of them go for walks, enjoying the lake ("I love the lake").

In the afternoon, maybe Dave and I will watch a guy movie on my computer and maybe one night I'll convince everyone to watch one that I've selected during the year since we were last together.

As a matter of fact, they arrived 9/11/2001. They told us about that horrible day. We had no idea that anything of momentous event was occurring that day. The world came to an end for so many people that day, changed most others' lives, and we're completely oblivious.

As I said, you're isolated there, it's as though the rest of the world ceases to exist other than when you desire to seek it and make it reappear. At first we wouldn't believe, couldn't bring outselves to believe, didn't WANT to believe.

Betti is a nurse, Dave works for the city. Yes, she's seen the movie, and since she's on a triage line, answering the phone all the time, she hears it regularly. We have so many nicknames for her, though, that one more doesn't bother her. She's Betti Boop, Betti Babe, Nurse Betti, etc.

Anyway, they're good friends. Unfortunately, they've moved to the northern suburbs and we're in a southern one so we don't see each other as much as we might like. Guess that's the way life happens. Whether we like it or not.

Nowadays we usually make our yearly visit to Grand Marais during that day when they're there. Grand Marais, tourist town extraordinare. There are more souvenir shops there per square mile than just about any place I've seen (well, maybe Two Harbors has more, but maybe not).

Used to be some really great stuff there, too, but they've become really new age in a lot of their stuff, so it's of less interest to us than it used to be. But there's always uniqueness to be found.

For example, a few years ago, my wife found that the bait shop has earrings made from fishing lures as well as the cobalt blue bottles which she usually goes there for. I told you the town (and businesses) were unique.

That's right across from the donut shop, the place that makes the best donuts in the world (no, really, the sign says so, right there in the window), Krispy Kreme eat your heart out. There's a big pad there that everyone from all over the world signs, a "Kilroy was here" type thing. And people send pictures from around the world showing them with their coffee club mug from there in all kinds of exotic places. They put them all up on the walls.

Down the street used to be the soda shop, but it was closed down this last year. We're waiting to see what goes in there. It just couldn't compete against their next-door neighbor, I guess. That would be "Sven and Ole's Pizza". Sven and Ole may not be as Italian as other pizzeria owners are, but they make a darn good pizza. Just a little eccentricity of Grand Marais.

Another is the "South of the Border" restaurant. Want to guess what kind of food they serve? Nope, you're wrong. It's American. You see, they're south of the CANADIAN border. Then there's the "Angry Trout" cafe, so-so food, great name.

We like the "Blue Water" cafe. Really good food. It was recently bought by some people from the Middle East and their whole family works there. Last year they hadn't really gotten the process down as well as you might wish and each of the four of us got our food at different times. Hopefully they'll have gotten their act together by next summer.

Maybe one of their problems was the clock on their wall that gives out bird sounds every half-hour. When it would start, every employee in the place would scurry around, searching high and low, trying to find where the bird might be hiding. No, really, I kid you not.

A restaurant we went to one time, not in Grand Marais but at one of the fancy resorts, served us "field greens" as a salad. That's the upscale term for lawn clippings. Maybe you've never had it, but that's really what it looks like to me.

It's like someone mowed the lawn outside and collected the clippings, added a few snippets from the rough at the local golf course, poured some raspberry tasting sauce over it and called it a salad. Not in my mind, nor in my stomach.

And no trip to Grand Marais would be complete without a visit to the Ben Franklin store, the place looks like it's been there for about as long as the town has. As a matter of fact, I'll bet that it was the original building that the rest of the town was built around.

I'm the kind of guy that believes in utility, if an item doesn't have a purpose, if you really don't have a need for it, then don't buy it. But each year, while I'm up at the lake, I buy a "totally useless thing" (tradition again, don't you see). It's my one useless extravagance per year. And sometimes it's Ben Franklin that provides the item.

Some of my useless items have been: a "Where's Waldo" book, a dunking bird (if you know what it is, you know what it is, otherwise it's impossible to describe), assorted "gunk flowing from one container to another" gadgets, peg puzzles, etc.

One year the pickings were really slim (how do I decide on something? I have no idea.) and I ended up with a rock, a tiny little geode, found in the last sourvenir shop before we got back to Duluth. What will this coming year bring? Who knows.

When Dave and Betti aren't there, our life consists of a round-robin of merriment including such things as eating, sleeping, reading books, listening to music, watching movies, playing games, watching the lake, listening to the lake, strolling by the lake, the lake, the lake, "I love the lake."

The movies have been an addition in the last few years since I've been doing some downloading. They certainly couldn't be called the best of quality (either in presentation or subject matter), but they're an excuse for my sweetheart and I to sit side by side on the couch, watching the movie on my computer. We try to do one each night, but sometimes we prefer some games (my wife is nuts for tri-ominos, strange when you consider that numbers are my love, not hers).

One of the most common activity in our day, however, is fly-hunting. No, it's not like fly-fishing. When we arrive and we unload the car, it's necessary to have the screen door to the cabin open quite a bit and the North Shore is known for one thing other than the lake.

That's flies, pesky little flies everywhere. They do cut into the enjoyment a bit, but, surprisingly, by the end of the week, you don't even notice them. By that time, when they land on you, you've somehow acquired the horse's ability to twitch your skin and they fly off.

But, at first, you've got to get rid of the crop you've let into the cabin. And these aren't dumb flies either, they know their way around a cabin, know who has the fly swatter and who doesn't. If you've got it, not only do they not come around you, but you won't even be able to FIND any.

It's as though an invisible aura surrounds that fly swatter, one that pushes flies off it, into hidden corners. But you put it down, give it to the other person, and miraculously they love you more than anything else in the world. But, as I said, by the end of the week, you're amusing yourself by watching one crawl over your foot, wondering whether he'll crawl out on your big toe, or head northward and up your leg. Such is life at the lake.

Anyway, the week comes to an end way too soon. By Saturday morning you realize your time is up and you become antsy to move on. You pack up the car (more huffing and puffing), and head out.

You've usually gone up to the office the day before and paid for the week (although you had to put down a $200 deposit back in February), another $350. Not only is it fairly cheap, but they trust you to pay after your visit! So you can head right out.

One last "chore", finding a place to have breakfast. We've tried several places for breakfast on that trip home, still trying to find the place we like best, I guess.

One place went strictly buffet (and a bad one at that), another has very inconsistent hours, another out of business. Last year's was so memorable we can't even remember where it was. Maybe this year we'll find the magic place.

A visit to my wife's favorite souvenir shop as we exit Two Harbors (the one with the big, big chicken statue outside it), and we're REALLY on our way home, as fast as our little car can take us.

And the last time I hear it, as we top the bluff leading out of Duluth, my wife craning her neck around toward the back, echoing in my ears: "Bye, lake. I love the lake."

I drive all the way up to the lake but I turn driving over to my wife coming home after we get out of Duluth. Don't know why we developed that habit, maybe by the end of the week I just can't be bothered by such a task as driving all the way home (too unwound, don't you know).

But she doesn't mind. She has a lead foot so we get back faster, so it all works out. Pretty soon we're back in civilization, I'm back in my chair, watching my TV, sleeping in my own bed. And, as great as the lake is, getting home is just as great, maybe even a bit more. Coming home always is.

So, if you should happen to be driving along the road this September, sometime in the first couple of weeks, and you see a sign that says "Little Marais," look for Fensteds up ahead. And if you've got a moment to kill, drop by, stop in, have a cup of coffee and look at the lake with us for a while.

We're in the Point Cabin, ask at the office for directions.