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

This time we'll stop at Silver Bay, make that left turn and follow the flower strips along the street to the center of town. Mind you, the center of town is one square block, most of which is parking spaces. There's a service station, the Dairy Queen, a gift shop, Zup's super market, a restaurant, a five-and-dime and several other small businesses. That's it. That's Silver Bay. They don't roll the sidewalks up at night because they don't have any sidewalks. Really.

So we get all the stuff we'll need for a week, count the meals, figure out what we'll need and then throw in a number of treats to remind us that we're on vacation. Used to be a lot of candy, chips, soda and silly things like Fiddle Faddle. Now, with both of us diabetics, it's nuts, fruit and bottled water. But it's all good too.

Off we go back down the road, heading for Little Marais. I'm always so glad to see that sign, both because it means we're getting really close and because that way I know where the "town" is. A few more miles and there, on the right, the driveway into Fensted's suddenly appears. A quick check-in, register for next year, and head down the hill toward our place, our cabin, the one we've decided is the best they have, the Point Cabin.

We've tried three or four there, but we keep coming back to the Point. The Harbor Cabin is furtherest toward the harbor, but the Point is actually closer to the water, so that's the one that'll satisfy my wife. "I love the lake" must be said as close to the water as possible or it just doesn't seem to have the same impact. We back the car in and, huffing and puffing, two old people unload the car as fast as we can.

I unpack my stuff, including the computer, get it all set up on the coffee table. It'll probably have one or the other of us at it most of the week. Just can't seem to get away from the trappings of modern society. My wife takes care of outfitting the small (about six by six) kitchen and unpacks her suitcases. Throw the stuff in the bathroom and we're there. Doesn't take us a whole lot to move in, we've done it before, we're pros.

The thing I like about this place, the thing that a lot of people WOULDN'T like, is that there's little here to distract you from the peace and quiet of the place. It's the perfect place for someone who needs to decompress. There's no TV (really, no TV), no newspapers, no telephone, no internet connections, and the only radio stations you're likely to get there are few and pretty sketchy reception. We arrive on Saturday afternoon and it usually takes at least till Tuesday before I am completely unwound.

You know how you know you're completely unwound? When you can decide to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon without any worry whatsoever that you're going to miss something. Or worry about whether you really should be accomplishing something, even if it's just reading a book. Yep, when you absolutely do exactly what you feel like doing, even if it's nothing, then you know that you're getting there.

At the cabin we live at whatever pace we want. We do whatever we want, whenever we want. Oh, we've got some routines, but they're routines because we want them, not because we need them or someone else wants them. We'll have a couple of nights during the week when we'll go into towns around to try out the local cuisine. And, of course, we have to have our lunch out one day at Dairy Queen. Chicken strips basket with french fries, gravy, and a vanilla shake. That's for me, my wife usually has chocolate. After that lunch we usually have a few "forgotten" items to pick up at Zup's, and back to the peace of our cabin.

A couple of years ago when we were at Dairy Queen, two guys were there who were obvious workers, either helping tar a street or roof or something. All their exposed skin, face and hands, was black as tar, literally coated with tar. I wondered how they intended getting the food into their mouth without it tasting like tar. Then I realized that if that was an ordinary work day for them that proably ALL their meals tasted like tar because that would be all that was ever in their smell. Once again, I was glad I'd decided I preferred a desk job, an indoor job, "I'll have one without tar, please."

For a week we're together. Occasionally one or the other of us might take a solitary walk down by the creek, but mainly we're together. I can't believe how lucky I am to have finally found a woman that I can be together with 24/7 and never have arguments. Oh, occasionally she'll peeve me or I her. But usually a few minutes is all we can stand being mad and a smile, a "I love you," and everything is OK again. She may love the lake, but I love her.

So, the cabin is two bedrooms. Why do we need two bedrooms? Well, we really don't, although when we were younger, it seemed sort of "naughty" to use the extra bedroom for a little afternoon delight (right before that nap). And over the last few years we've had friends come up for a few days to join us, so the extra bedroom gets "legitimate" use. By the way, these bedrooms don't have doors, just curtains you can pull across the opening. Having guests in a cabin means being discreet where your glance wanders and investing in a solid robe to make sure other things don't wander into glance.

Running along the front of the cabin is a porch with a couple of plastic lawn chairs leaning against the railing to keep water from pooling on them in case it rains. And my wife always makes me put them back that way although it's not my wont to do so. See, small peeves.

I'm not an outdoors guy (funny, considering how I grew up), so I might go out there once or twice in the week, mostly I just stay in the cabin. Maybe it's not your idea of a great vacation, but it's heaven to me. I often joke that I would live in a cave if I could, and I mean it. I really like the feeling of being ensconced within "my place," safe from the randomnesses of the outdoors.

A few feet, like maybe ten, in front of the cabin is the lake. Lake Superior doesn't have a whole lot of sand beaches, most are composed of rocks. That's what we have there, and it gives the waves hitting the shore a really solid sound, like the lake is serious about trying to join you on land. Wonderful noise at night as you drift into restful dreams. And there's plenty of material for "throwing a 'tone into 'Perior," a task my wife always accomplishes for the memory of her kids, a reminder of what they did naturally when they're small.

They have a barbeque gadget outside the cabin, but we never use it. My wife gets a lot less vacation than I do, having to do all the cooking, but she doesn't complain. She's my gal, don't know what I'd do without her. Was watching a TV show last night about a single guy buying this really nice house and my wife is gushing about how great the house is. Then she comments how unfair a single guy should have such a nice, big house. That's where she goes with it. What I wonder is: how can he be happy in that nice house, he has nobody to share it with, nobody to share his life with, what would I do if I had to be that again? And I shiver.

Well, I'd like to end this, but there's still so much more in that week. We've still got the yearly pilgrimage to Grand Marais (one of the most unique town I know), our friends Dave and Nurse Betti's visit, all the things we accomplish (or rather don't accomplish) there, as well as the trip home. See you tomorrow.