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K.L. Abrahamson The early morning August sun couldn’t dispel my chill as I walked the trail along the south side of Big Lake carrying a bouquet of wildflowers. The air was too cold on my neck, the sun too bright, my head hurt like hell, and I was trying to convince myself I didn’t want another drink. And I felt guilty as hell for falling off the wagon. Overhead, the poplar leaves clapped in the light wind and Canada geese on a stopover from their southward flight honked and chuckled in the mist-swathed reeds where the lake water entered Big