A case of the Mondays

“It takes me four working days to recuperate from my weekends”, I said to a friend who was contemplating her newly reached level of exhaustion after a weekend paddling and portaging up north (note: Montrealers call “up north” anything above St-Jerome, Quebec, a mere 70Km away from the city).

Joke aside, three weekends ago, I set out to get my rest weekend but so far failed. Two weekends ago, we set out for a very short and not steep at all hike in the Adirondacks. It turned out our maps were wrong (i.e. old and outdated). We hiked with heavy backpacks for 13Km on a very hot and humid day. We never reached our goal and spent the night in a lean-to. The next day, we had to walk out. At the sandwich café, in Lake Placid (I highly recommend that place, Big Mountain Deli and Creperie), I couldn’t choose which of the 46 sandwiches (for the 46 high peaks in the region, for the peak baggers among us). I was too tired. The little 60 minutes dogfish IPA allowed me to recup a little before we headed back home.

Last weekend was going to be really relaxing, I thought. I’ll stay in the city on Sunday, I decided. As if that was a sure fire proof against my adventurous heart. Nope! Saturday I mountain biked with friends near St-Bruno, Québec. Then Sunday, we took a long walk around downtown. There were bubble tea, heat, humidity, poutine, beers, terrasses, abandonned parc, photoshooting, getting lost on purpose, back alleys, but no relaxing.

So Monday morning, once again, I had this look:

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