My husband and I used to joke about one particular trip camping with his family back in 2000 where we flew into a remote part of Alaska.
With 13 pieces of luggage (and one box of Cinnabons picked up last minute at the airport) for the six of us.
Not really backpacking.
My mother-in-law took a lot of ribbing over that trip. True, she did most of the packing, but when our float-plane pilot looked at us like we were nuts, we all shrugged and pointed to the woman holding the Cinnabons.
Never miss a local story.
During the past eight years, I apparently have learned something from her.
We got on the plane at the Tri-Cities Airport with 10 items for the four of us. One checked bag for each of the three tickets we purchased, two car seats, my son’s carry-on bag full of “surprises,” another carry-on with the random stuff we didn’t want checked, the diaper bag, a stroller and the backpack carrier. Ten items.
I stood in amazement looking at our stack of stuff at the ticket counter. Then, I looked at our sherpa -- my husband.
It’s no wonder he was a little tired and beat looking when we arrived in home.