The Seven Lakes Drive would be our last dance with the Beast and we set out to choreograph a graceful exit. Logan geared up with a rod and fishing license. I shuffled through our pile of unread books and picked some favorites, more than ready to forget myself in someone else’s adventures.
There would be no more kidding ourselves about the end. This was it and it filled us both with a deeply unsettling heartache. A final dirt road venture would be our coup de grace.
This was our kind of PanAm perfection, deserted roads, lonely landscapes, crystal clear lake water, sunshine, and a roaring fire each night. Wide open space filled only with our quiet thoughts and the occasional parrot’s cry flitting across the water and in between the trees.
We spent more time living outside during our tour of the Lakes District than we had in quite some time. There was a natural ease about it and it felt like a fitting throwback to our first days on the PanAm. Nothing could stand in the way of our excitement for the unknown, the thrill of daily uncertainty, the giddy anticipation for places just like this.
Many toasts were made, campfire conversation was ample, a few books were read and no fish were caught. Seven lakes and seven days came and went.