The apples of my eye and dirt and rocks and sticks and water. Wading into the deepest drop off while a man and his wife adorn scuba gear in the middle of the great north woods. Five shirtless boys holler and run and jump while two of their mothers, carefully covered in their full coverage swimsuits, capture photographs on their phones. This is the summer that exceeds all other summers. This is the pinnacle of my fatherhood and an eye opener to the possibilities that lie therein. Matchless fires, hammocks and fully cooked bratwursts bookend random passersby as they gaze upon the wonders of a modern day mobile treehouse. Our little fort in the air. Orange in all of its glory, it has proved to be the gateway to our wild side. Fifteens and thirty-ones and hand made pegs post holes in the story that we’ll talk about down the road. It is July in the Midwest and there is nowhere I’d rather be.