I had an experience two years ago that really warped my brain, and I think that the time has

finally come where I can talk about it.

I'm so thankful that you provide a safe place where I and others like me can feel comfortable

telling our stories. Thank you for that.

I live in northern Ontario in Canada. I heard you joking recently that we here in the Great

White North should choose names of places that are easy to say. Well, not to worry, my friend,

I will not burden you with any difficult words today.

Anyway, as I said, two years ago, I decided to do a little late season camping. It was the end of

October, and the rain and the wind were wreaking havoc. I don't know what the temperature was,

but it was cold, and I know that I could see my breath.

When I go out, I like to be as far away from people as I can get.

I have a habit of following remote roads until I can't go any further,

and then I look for a suitable campsite nearby.

On this day, I had followed an old logging road about 35 kilometers until I came

across a very deep and wide washout across the road. On the other side of the washout was a bridge

that passed over the river and it fed an adjoining lake. I remember thinking that it was odd that the road would wash out next to the

bridge where the water could travel freely under, but nature will do what she wants, I guess.

It was impossible for me to proceed any further, and as luck would have it, I had stopped next to a

really nice camping area right on the shoreline of that

beautiful lake. I wheeled into that spot and proceeded to set up camp. The wind and the rain were

still blowing, but I knew that the weather was expected to let up late in the afternoon.

A few hours later, the weather did not let up as promised, and the sun started to set.

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