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I have told a few stories about my Pappa before.  He is a geologist with something like six-and-a-half decades of experience, a man that has worked on several continents to find things hidden so deep in the ground that normal people don’t even know that they’re there, someone that once roped a caribou as a means of propulsion for his canoe (true story).

Since he moved back up north, I haven’t seen much of him.  It’s a long drive, there isn’t a lot up there, and I have a baby that needs me.

But recently I got thinking about how nice it would be to spend a day or two reconnecting with a man that figured so largely in my childhood, an adventurer and an explorer, scholar and woodsman.  Time goes by too quickly to put off such thoughts, so I wrangled up my little brother, gassed up the car, and the two of us headed north.

Two brothers standing on a big, cold rock.