B and I had such an amazing weekend. We packed and headed to the lake after he got home from work, stopping only to pick up some barbecue for dinner, then met his Dad and brother at the Blue Ridge location. We spent a little time all three days cleaning or getting the house ready for summer (hello, pollen season!), but mostly we relaxed on the dock, played on the lake, and enjoyed really great food over candlelight dinners at home.
One of my favorite things to do at the lake (and anywhere with B, really) is to go on long walks, so off we went Saturday evening, taking a different path than we normally do. Don't worry-- by "path" I mean turning left out of their gates instead of right. We're still talking main road here.
We'd walked about 20 minutes on the gravel mountain road when we heard barking. Loud barking. Mean barking. B turned around and saw a big dog racing toward us, looked at me, and said "run." No panic, no fear, just "run."
And run we did, for about a quarter of a mile. The dog stopped once we got away from his turf, I suppose, but still. Scary. I know I know, normally you don't run from things that like to give chase, but dogs up in Blue Ridge deal with bears and more, so you don't mess with them. Half a mile later, we passed some people outside on their decks (by now we're both holding sticks), who gave us a good teasing about said sticks, so I told them about the dog. Everyone knows everyone up there, and nobody knew this dog, so he must be new.
Either way, our mountain walk turned into a moutain sprint, so I definitely think B and I earned our steaks that night!