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It’s been a heck of a week.  I spent last weekend at Lake House.  Not a lake house, not even the lake house.  Just: Lake House.

No picture could do this place justice.

This is a sanctuary where about a dozen good friends and I make a pilgrimage every year.  Nestled in the Adirondack mountains, on the shore of the Great Sacandaga, Lake House is a wonderful taste of Shangri-La.  All parties arrived (from four different parts of the North East) just at sunset on Friday (pictured above).  For the next 70 hours or so, we all talked, sang, played guitar, grilled meats and farm-fresh veggies on the grill, drank, and swam in the lake to our hearts’ content.

I can’t get enough of that place.

Alas, all good things must come to an end.  Now, I’m back in the Big Apple, complete with the noises, smells, crowds, traffic and general animosity towards one’s fellow man.  I didn’t realize until I got to Lake House how much the city wears on you, even when you’re generally having a good time, as I am.

Plus, I firmly believe that no matter how far we come as humans, we’ll never get tired of campfires and star gazing.