I have been dreaming a lot lately. Remembering dreams, that is. Seems when I wake up before 5:00am I can recall them but any time after that and I am just bleary-eyed and wobbly. One recent dream stood out because it was so vivid and detailed, about my place in Maine. I have been thinking about camp a lot lately, as I am heading up there next month for the first time this year. I also recently received an email from the State of Maine asking if I wanted to renew my fishing license for 2021. Well of course I am renewing and for many years in the future, God willing. In my dream I was driving down camp road as far as the recent snowplow had cleared. After that I walked the mile or so the rest of the way to camp. The cabin side door was unlocked. I opened it and as I stamped the snow off my feet a family of mice were awakened and scampered in all directions. The furniture was covered as it had been prepared for winter when I left in September. My rods were all in place and my single shot shotgun was standing up in the corner. I walked through to the screened-in porch which was enclosed with clear plastic to keep out the snow from the northwest. Then I was down at the dock. Everything was enveloped in a thick blanket of snow. The picnic table and barbeque were icy gray mounds in the shadows of the trees. The lake ice pack was thick enough to walk on and I looked out to see fishing shacks on the frozen water. Some had smoke rising from their roofs. Ice fishing is not my cup of tea, and I did not feel comfortable knocking on anyone’s door out on the lake. I retreated to my cabin and opened the flue in the fireplace. I assembled the kindling and rolled some old newspaper to start a fire. Soon the place was aglow with the light and warmth from the hearth. My dream ended there, and it left me with a feeling of intense longing to be back at camp, my sanctuary and fortress in the woods.