We kissed her goodbye and rushed out to the car and crammed ourselves into the front seat beside Father. The back seat was piled high with gear and supplies. My father retarded the spark, set the hand throttle on the steering wheel, cranked the motor, leaped in to advance the spark, and away we went. The new state road wasn’t finished then, but the dirt road to Blue Mountain Lake was open, and we rattled over it as the sun rose behind us, throwing the Model T’s long shadow down the dusty hills ahead of us. There were no car radios in those days, a lack we made up for by singing at the top of our lungs. Tim was mauling “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding,” and nothing my father and I could sing would divert his attention from that song, so we finally threw down the towel and joined in with him. Then we sang “Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning” and “Casey Jones.”

It was still early when we reached Blue Mountain Lake, and the general store was still closed. Two horses were tied outside the bank, so someone must have been inside working—or robbing it. We stopped at a garage on the edge of town for a can of oil and a cold pop for Tim and me.

“Enjoy it,” warned my father. “You won’t see another bottle of pop for ten days.”

“Going camping?” asked the garage man.

“Yes,” my father said. “I thought I’d show the kids the deer herds and maybe a moose before winter comes on. Looks to be a bad one this year.”

“It’ll be that,” said the garage man. “I saw three flocks of Canadian geese going over last evening, and here it’s not even November.”

“Well,” said my father, “we’re sure having an Indian summer now.”

“I hope it lasts for you,” said the garage man. “You going up toward the Saranacs?”

“Tupper Lake,” my father said. “Plan to canoe down Beaver Creek. It ought to run good. We may have to portage once or twice.”

The garage man whistled. “Jiminy,” he said. “Where can you put a canoe into Beaver Creek?”

“Well,” my father said, “I was hunting up this way last year, and there was a pretty good logging road cutting in just above Cat Mountain. I thought we’d drive the Lizzie in as far as we could and then pack the rest of the way.”

“Jiminy,” the man said again. “Wisht I was going with you. That sounds like the cat’s pajamas.”

“Maybe next time,” said my father. “You fish?”

“Does a dog howl?” He laughed. “Well, you be careful.”

“We will,” promised my father, and we drove away. I had finished drinking my pop, but I still had the bottle. I showed it to my father. “We forgot to give the man back his bottle,” I said.