For years during our childhood my sisters and I would endure a six-hour drive in the back of our family’s minivan, an epic north-bound trek broken only by a brief pit stop at the McDonald’s in Stevens Point, in order to spend a week in northern Wisconsin. The reward for surviving that ride was seven days in the woods. We canoed, we hiked, we swam, we hunted for bugs, we built campfires, we burned marshmallows and eventually learned to toast them. Once, we got lice. That particular pediculous week our mother sat us on a stool outside our cabin and bent over us for hours, picking through our long hair with a fine-tooth comb, and our father spent a whole glorious northern day at the laundromat in town, watching all of our linens, all our soft toys, tumble around in the industrial washer and dryer.

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