It would take more than that tonight. Normally I had a long drive, maybe even a night's rest before I came home after a job, and that gave me time to shift personas. To night I was still thinking about Quinn and about Grant Beecham, and neither of them belonged here. I watched the window for another minute, then went down to the dock and did a few laps of the lake in my kayak. By the time I was done, I was me again.

I headed up to the lodge. On the outside, its weathered, rough-hewn wood suggested a true wilderness experience, with blazing fires for heat, lanterns for light, and an outhouse around the corner. It's an illusion, of course. We have a furnace, electricity, running water, even Jacuzzi tubs in two bedrooms. At a place like Red Oak, it's the illusion that matters – the feeling that you're getting back to nature. Roughing it without actually roughing it.

Most of our clientele need lessons in everything from holding a canoe paddle to using binoculars, meaning the trails winding through the property are so well marked you could find your way in the dark. Yet we still provide maps and, if you'd like, I'll take you out, just to be safe. I'll also take you biking, canoeing, kayaking, white-water rafting, spelunking, rappelling, and shooting, though you'll have to sign a three-page waiver for that last one.

If you want bonfires and beer or a picnic lunch in the wildflowers or coffee and fresh muffins while watching the sun rise, then Red Oak Lodge is the place for you. If you're looking for gourmet meals, big-screen TVs and Jet Skis, I can recommend a lovely place thirty minutes northwest… at double the cost.

Because no one expected me back, no one had signed up for the 6 a.m. jog. So I could have skipped it. But no signups meant I could go alone.

The morning air was still so cold it was like sucking ice cubes, the endless silence broken only by the rhythmic thump of my feet. When I'm running with guests, I usually do only five kilometers. Today, I went twice that, through White Rock and back.