The world was just beginning to be lightened by the day's new sun. I peeked at my watch and pressed the knob to make the disc glow neon green.

Seven minutes after five o'clock.

On each of the previous six mornings, I went through the same ritual, and managed to waken before sunrise without needing an alarm. Rise slowly from the cot with squeaky metal springs, extract my cold glasses from the brim of my right boot, and put on the dirty clothes of yesterday.

I put on my hiking shoes, and tie them in the dark. Then I gather the rolled bundle of my towel, washcloth and clean clothes that I prepared the night before. By now my bladder is sending urgent messages that we have to make a stop up at the latrine.

But we have another stop first, just 10 meters up the hill from my tent. I try to quietly open the trailer door, an impossible task, and retrieve my shaving kit.

All "smellables" from camp are stored in the trailer overnight...to keep them from attracting the unwanted attention of the resident black bears. That's all the toothpaste and toiletries, all food and candy (which isn't supposed to be here anyway, but candy packages are scattered all over the trailer), all cameras (black bears like the smell of camera film...who knew?) and yesterday's trash.

By now the bladder is declaring that being mauled by a bear is preferable to the fate that is awaiting us if we delay any longer at the trailer.

Stop two is the latrine, a two-holer with an additional metal trough for the male users, who are in the vast majority. It is an open affair, with no door, just a roped sign to stretch across the gap to let others know it is in use. Concrete floors and wooden walls, but with a one-foot gap between the floor and wall, and a wider span of open space between the top of the wall and the wood ceiling. You can peek out over the wall to see who is walking by on the path, and they can see the shoes and socks of anyone inside. Not really private.

With the bladder appeased, I begin the nearly ³/₄-mile hike to the adult showers. About half the walk is straight towards the rising sun. Saw all the sunrises last week. Then turn south, past "Jurassic Park", the electrified garbage bins for the mess hall, and up the narrow lane through the woods to the showers.

That was my routine for the past six mornings. But not today. Today I rolled over in the nice, soft, warm, quiet bed to face my wife, sleeping soundly beside me.

And promptly got a heeler foot in the face.

It's good to be home.