September 3. Now the days are too warm even for T-shirt and sandals. When the sun shines on our campsite during the midday hours, we move chairs and blankets for hours to stay in the shade. Stars overclear between the treetops, but only at the lake beach we see the big constellations: Swan, Cassiopeia, Big Dipper. I haven’t seen the Dolphin for so long that I had forgotten it existed.

It was so warm that I lost respect for the night, didn’t put on enough layers, and froze again. The next two nights are both supposed to be marginally colder, and I will be able to improve my sleeping gear. In moments when we have internet, retrieving the predicted temperature curves is actually cheating. One would have to prepare for the nights by studying the rustling of the leaves. I only heard it for the first time this morning, not at all yesterday.

Among all the bulky, streamlined campers in their demonstrative black and white, our hammock camp is the most primitive here. On our wooden bench are five bottles of whiskey, which we drink from coffee cups. We forgot plates. We laugh as we realize that we are almost certainly the richest people on this campground.

When we were kids camping with our families, we used to eye people like us somewhat shyly from a distance as weird strangers.