We’re on our last camping trip of the year, to the same location as last year’s final one with the same friends. Does that constitute a tradition?
A search tells me the first time is an event or one time choice. The second, a deliberate repeat that establishes a tradition. The third cements it into a routine.
The tradition I like most about this annual trip is picking apples and making campsite applesauce.
The location is not without its hazards. Last year while geocaching I disturbed a hornets nest resulting in multiple stings and a round of steroids. Two days ago I slipped on hard windfall apples, the equivalent of giant marbles, dislocating both my knee and right thumb. Fortunately I know my joint issues and both successfully popped back into place, but I have the bruises as a souvenir.
This year C was a most enthusiastic picker, not listening three times when I said I thought we had enough apples. As my thumb is out of commission, he had the honour of peeling and coring his enthusiasm.
Next year he might pay attention, but in the meantime we have seven quarts of deliciousness to enjoy.
The days have been cool and grey, turning into Pacific Northwest autumn mizzle.
But last night’s sunset did not disappoint.
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