Many years ago

during one of my Bruce hiking adventures, my feet were sore from stepping over 5,000 little boulders on this prehistoric beach (another ten million years will turn them into sand particles).

The sun was burning, legs tired, tongue dry and I had to lay down and dream a little. If only I had a beer, I thought. Just one on this quiet, seductive beach. I stretched, groaned and felt some cardboard between two boulders.

My hand jumped a little, knowing rattlesnakes lived on the Bruce, and if I were one, this was a perfect place to get a little suntan. I sat up, turned around and could not believe my eyes, a six pack of beer, unopened and surely missed by campers, how long ago? In any case, I was sure the good Lord meant me to have not one but all six of them.

I ripped the cap off against my jeans almost taking my thigh along with it, and pressed the bottle to my lips with one great chug-a-lug gulp and almost died. It was skunked tens times over and I doubled up, then straightened, then to my knees and spat ever drop, almost followed by my tongue.

Then I jumped up and flew across the other 5,000 rocks barely touching a one. And running flat out to erase the thought of that stuff inside my gut. Much later I had the trots, but by then I was phased out. So folks, be careful what you wish for, and make sure to check out the shelf life before imbibing.

(c) Richard L. Provencher
Website: www.wsprog.com/rp/

Note: The Bruce Trail is 400 km long, from Hamilton, Ontario to Tobermory on the Bruce Peninsula. It is actually the edge of Lake Iroquois, an ancient huge lake which encompassed this whole region.