�Let�s see � pots and pans and lids and paper plates and utensils and napkins and tablecloth.� MacNair squinted at the list. �How did seventeen bottles of Scotch get on here?� Scratch, scratch, scratch, she erased them.

�MacNair? Did you want all of the bedding in the trailer or are you packing it in the truck so the trailer doesn�t weigh so much?� shouted Duncan. He couldn�t see her over the mound of comforters and blankets in his arms.

�In the truck, please.� She glanced up in time to see Methos walk by. �Hey! Where are you going with THAT? We don�t have room for the thermostatic beer dispenser!�

�But, I need it!�

�Nope. No room. You�ll just have to make do.�

�MAKE DO?!� he demanded. �This is my vacation too, you know.�

MacNair didn�t look up from her clipboarded list. �Is it ever a vacation with the two Scots going with you?�

�Uh-h-h��

�Case closed. No dispenser.� She put the clipboard down and went to drag out all of her summer clothes from the closet, only to find Connor had been there first. He had every assortment of tank top, halter top, bikini top laid out on the bed and was standing over them as if he couldn�t make up his mind!

�I think a halter top would look fine on you,� smugly announced MacNair.

� forty-five minutes later�

�MacNair? Would you go and talk some sense into that ROG? He�s trying to shove the beer dispenser behind the bed of the camper!� complained Duncan. He had an armful of kitchen spices, one loaf of bread, the toaster, and three boxes of cereal.

�I TOLD him once already! Am I going to have kick him in the shins?� The little blonde stomped out the door.

Connor sauntered through the kitchen and added a jar of jam to Duncan�s load. �Where�s MacNair?�

�She�s out lambasting Methos.�

�Are her eyes green?�

�Nope.�

�She�s not mad enough yet.�

� twelve minutes later�

�Music, books to read, golf clubs, cameras, camping chairs,� she went down her list, �sunscreen�hey? How did seventeen bottles of Scotch get back on here?� Scratch, scratch, scratch.

�MacNair? Do you want the cooler in the truck, or the camper?� asked Duncan.

�I�ve told you before, put everything in the truck so the camper doesn�t weigh so much.�

�I don�t think there�s any more room.�

�What?�

�There appears to be a thermostatic beer dispenser in there and it�s taking up all the room.�

�M-E-T-H-O-S!�

Connor appeared with two tarps and an electric heater in his arms. �Sounds like MacNair is after the ROG again,� he observed. Duncan added a zip lock bag filled with matches atop the load his kinsman held.

�Her eyes are not green.�

�He�s safe, then.�

� twenty minutes later�

�Let�s see, where was I? Firestarter, paper towels, toilet paper, three more big bath towels, shampoo, toothpaste � what the hell? Seventeen bottles of Scotch�AGAIN!� Scratch, scratch, scratch. Then she wrote sideways down the list:: If �seventeen bottles of Scotch� shows up on this list ONE � MORE � TIME � I will break all seventeen across someone�s skull and will leave both Scots home!

�Hey, MacNair,� called Duncan. �Let�s not forget to put the boat plug in this time. I�d hate to sink the boat on vacation. That was a devil of a thing LAST time!�

�Never put Richie in charge of the boat plug.�

�Um, you might want to look out the window.�

�Now what?�

�Methos has his beer dispenser roped to the top of the Suburban.�

�I�am�going�to�kill�him!� She stormed out the door.

�Zoiks, her eyes were green that time!� announced Connor, passing the kitchen with the tent.

�I wish you�d quite quoting that silly Scooby Do movie,� dourly complained Duncan. �And, yes, I think Methos has finally gotten her to warp speed.�

�Too much Star Trek for you. Did she have a sword?�

�No.�

�A knife?�

�No.�

�A nail file?�

�Not unless it�s down her shorts.�

�Impossible. I guess he�s safe enough.� Connor listened to the onslaught of sound from outside a moment. �Maybe you should go look, just in case��

Duncan started outside to run interference. �Hey, what�s the tent for when we�ve got a trailer?�

�It�s for Methos. I�m fairly certain he�ll be in the �doghouse,� after this.�

� fifteen minutes later�

�Okay. Finally!� MacNair studied her list. �Cups, coffee, coffee bean grinder, filters, sugar, TV, VCR, tapes to watch. WHAT? Sixteen bottles of Scotch!!!! AIIGGH!�

�Now, where was I?� MacNair consulted her list again. �Games to play, tackle boxes, fishing poles, floaty tube, extra rope � rope � rope. Did I pack the rope?� She stalked outside to find it and tossed it on the growing pile at the doorway to the garage. Then she stalked out to the trailer and looked in the door � then behind the bed � then in the bathroom � and finally in the back of her truck. No thermostatic beer dispenser? Wahoo, I won. Finally! she though. Back to the list. �Directions to campground, map, flashlights�� Scratch, scratch, scratch, she erased the (now) fifteen bottles of Scotch.

�MacNair? Did you put the cables with the VCR or did you leave them behind the TV in the house?� inquired Duncan. He was dandling a set of cords in his fingers and had a long-suffering look on his face.

�Woopsie. I�ll take them out, right now!� When she returned, there was a note for �fourteen bottles of Scotch� on her list � followed by a very neatly written complaint that there were TWO Scots going and that fourteen bottles was not very much Scotch for them to have to share.

That is still a half of a bottle of Scotch a day for each of you, which is too much when you�ll be swigging beers all day because it�s hot! I�m not about to have you wobbling around on bikes, or steering my boat, inebriated! she wrote right back � and then scratched out the fourteen again.

She went outside with a bag of clothing and eyed Methos suspiciously in his lawn chair.

�What? I�m just sitting here, and you�re glaring at me!� he protested.

�You gave up a bit easy about the beer dispenser.�

�Easy? You call a shouting-down loud enough to attract the neighbors EASY?�

� ten minutes later�

The note read: Still not enough Scotch to keep us happy.

She wrote back: But enough to keep you from off-key singing around my campfire.

�and after that �

You *like* to hear us around the campfire. We get entertaining, said the note.

She wrote back: And you fall in the fire. Then you yell. Then the other campers wonder what I�m doing. I lie and tell them I�m roasting s�mores, when I�m really roasting Highlanders!

�later�

We promise not to yell.

MacNair wrote: HA!

She made the rounds of the camper and the truck again, but no beer dispenser did she find. This was looking mighty suspicious� In the kitchen, the note on the clipboard had a separate sheet of paper now taped to it in order to list all the reasons why seventeen bottles of Scotch was an ideal number of bottles to take along. The liberal use of the word �merry� was used. (MacNair�s favorite word.)

She wrote NO! in very large letters.

�twenty minutes later�

Please? said the note. Someone had freehanded a pencil drawing of a face with luminous sad eyes on it. The eyebrows looked like Duncan�s, but the deep-set eyes were Connor�s.

She added a pair of �Harry Potter� glasses and a mustache to the picture and went on with her packing.

�MacNair, where did you put the hitch for the trailer?�

�I didn�t take it off the truck.�

�Well, you said you did, so where is it?�

�I took it off before you took it to have the wheel bearings packed. You put it back on to go get the trailer when the work was done.�

�But, I didn�t take it off after that and now it's gone.�

�Well, *I* didn�t take it off either!� She stomped her foot for emphasis once and then went off to check her list again.

Connor sauntered into the kitchen and took note of the scowl on his kinsman�s face. �What�s the matter Duncan?�

�MacNair is missing a hitch.�

�So what�s new?�

�twenty minutes later�

�So, Connor is pressure washing the boat and Rich is still at work at the shop and Duncan is changing the transmission oil in the Bronco. Where he found the hitch that HE removed and PUT there! Gee, looks like everyone is at work � except Methos.� MacNair looked out the front window and waited for a likely lull in the roar of the pressure washer. Connor was bareback and barefoot, wearing a pair of scraggly white cut-off shorts. The rebound of spray from the pressure washer had coated him with fine droplets that glimmered on his skin and the sunlight threw rainbows through the aura surrounding him. It was a full fifteen minutes before he tripped the cutoff switch so he could move to the other side of the boat � and MacNair never noticed the passage of time until then.

�Ho, waterboy? Where�s Methos?� she yelled down at the waterkissed immortal.

�He�s out back burning the beef.�

Methos? At the grill? Will wonders never cease? she thought. Sure enough, the ROG was perched on the wall near the barbecue, sipping a cold beer, with a long handled spatula in his hand.

�You�re cooking?� she inquired.

�Hamburgers. Messy, easy, no frills.�

�Are you going to do some onions on the grill for us?�

�I s-a-i-d �no frills.�� He gave her an arch-browed look. �Have you gone deaf?�

�After shouting at YOU all day, 'tis no wonder.�

�Hmph,� and he looked the other way. "I want my beer dispenser."

�Ahhh, Methos. We�re camping by a lake and we�ve got the campsite right AT the edge of the water�the biggest one they have. You can put all your brews in the water to cool, just like the old days,� MacNair soothed.

�Just for the record, I HATED those old days!�

�You�re spoiled.�

�After 5000 years, I deserve to be spoiled!�

MacNair went back to her list. �Sugar, Tylenol, bug spray, pillows for everyone, games, waterfilter � dammit! �Lots of bottles of Scotch?� I am going to HIDE this list!� she announced to the empty kitchen. �But first�" Scratch, scratch, scratch, she erased the �lots of bottles of Scotch.�

Sunday morning arrived early. Crack of dawn, beat the birds up, early. Connor made coffee, Duncan fried bacon and eggs, Methos grumbled. MacNair rechecked her list and scribbled out item after item as she went.

This time, there were no comments about Scotch. She also did a tour of the vehicles and there was NO thermostatic controlled beer dispenser hiding anywhere.

Duncan led the parade, pulling the 27-foot trailer. Methos rode with him, but didn�t seem like much company, since he curled up with a pillow against the door and went back to sleep. �Wake me when it�s lunch,� he was last heard to mumble.

Connor drove the Bronco, with MacNair riding shotgun, towing the boat. Both immortals stopped three times before leaving town just to check and recheck their lights, turn signals, mirrors, and hitches.

�Always pays to be safe,� remarked Duncan.

�Unless all the delays get you killed. Hit the road, buster, my vacation has started and I�m not even out of dodge yet!� MacNair addled at him.

�Now, now.� Duncan leaned on her door and grinned. �You�re riding with Connor. Play with his knee and see how he drives. THAT will be entertaining.�

�Hey, watch your mouth!� Connor protested. (MacNair noted that it was a lackluster attempt at protest.)

Comments from inside the Bronco:

The rest stop where they were supposed to meet Richie was huge, with truck lanes and dog areas and free coffee. Duncan and Connor both had a cup, Methos had three. There were picnic tables and water fountains and a playground � but no Richie. Connor stretched out in the back seat of the Bronco and shut his eyes. Duncan reclined the seat of the Suburban and also took a nap.

Methos, oddly enough, watched the highway both directions for Rich. Every once in a while, he would crane his head, but then would be disappointed when it was some other young hothead on a fast bike instead of the young hothead he was looking for. MacNair was highly entertained watching Methos look worried.

�I�m sure he�s all right, old man,� she said quietly to him.

�Ahh, yes. He is certainly all right,� agreed Methos. He continued to watch the highway.

Finally, a spluttering hum came down the highway that sounded odd. It was a motorcycle, certainly, but it had an enormous rider! Way-y too much rider for the bike, it seemed from the distance! And it had a side car that was carrying a very large person as well!

�Isn�t that abuse of a bike?� asked Connor, up and bright from his ten minute power nap.

�Abuse of something�� agreed Duncan, sipping his second cup of coffee.

The laboring motorcycle grew closer and closer, brrraaaappppaaapppppaaaaa�RUMM�DE�Duh�brrraaaappppaaaaappppaaaaaaa�sput-sput-sput, and every eye at the rest stop focused on it as it slowly took the turnoff and coasted, belching smoke and sounding like two tin cans were in the carburetor, to a halt.

MacNair stared.

It was Richie Ryan. And tied behind him, held slightly askew with ropes and then strapping tape, was Methos� thermostatic beer dispenser. The sidecar held two kegs of beer, one atop the other.

�I�m here!� announced Richie cheerfully. �Good thing you called and told me what they�d forgot, old man. Hey, MacNair, I thought you used a list so you wouldn�t miss important things like this?�

Silence.

*Explosion.*

Coherent words amongst the mix:

They went on, albeit with the kegs inside the Surburban. Methos had to squeeze up against the door to make room, but he did not complain once. Connor had a case of the smirks, but kept them to a minimum because he was riding with a slightly frazzled blonde. When they got close to Duncan's rig ahead of them, they could distinctly hear the two immortals singing some bawdy drinking song at the top of their lungs.

Connor yelled at them to roll up their windows, but they didn�t hear him.

MacNair eventually saw the humor in Methos� fanatical obsession with his beer dispenser and started laughing. By the time they made camp and she climbed into the boat to unpack the bikes and other extra things, she wasn�t terribly surprised to discover a bottle of Scotch hidden in the bottom of the tackle box.

And one behind the radio.

One in the live well.

Two in the anchor bucket.

Four snugged into the life preservers.

One in the fishing creel.

Two in the bait box.

One behind the main gasoline can.

One behind the emergency gasoline can.

Two taped to the bottom of seats.

And one where the boat plug was kept.

Seventeen bottles of Scotch in all�

This �Packing for Vacation� comes to you courtesy of yours truly! MacNairCDC � still crazy after all these years.

::::: Arrival :::::

It was dusty. And hot. Not necessarily in that order.

The �lake� turned out to be a river, since MacNair had misunderstood which campground she was looking at while making the reservations several months previously. �Understandably so,� she retorted to the puzzled muses, �since all of you were standing over my shoulders giving directions, arguing about what lake you wanted to fish, debating where you could pack a beer dispenser, and quibbling about the prices at the campgrounds!� Her finger shook alarmingly at all four of them in turn. �Sort out your guilt.�

Duncan rolled his eyes. MacNair being confuzzled about something was more of a �state of being� than a �state of mind� in the first place. Connor nudged him to get his eyes settled before the slightly frazzled blonde caught him.

The river was fast and deep, also not necessarily in that order, with a breathtakingly sheer drop-off embankment for as far as the eye could see. Methos took one look at it and smugly said, �Good thing I brought my beer dispenser. I would have been KILLED trying to cool my brew in that!�

MacNair considered pushing him in the river anyway, but settled for digging her nails into her palms. She received her first taste of what camping with muses would be like, right there at the river. It went something like this:

�It�s not that fast,� announced Duncan.

�Says who?� added Rich.

�From up here, yes. We�re thirty feet high ... I bet we could put beer in that river to cool if we wanted to.� Kinsman looked challengingly at kinsman, his eyes gleaming.

�We could tie it with some nylon rope right to this snag right here...� offered Connor, pointing.

�The current would shake it around too much. It has to sit on the bottom ... right over there, where the water eddies in that curve.� Duncan was pointing slightly to the left, where the current whorled and cut a half-circle in the embankment.

�A full six-pack would be fine, but if you drink only a few beers out of the set, the others will be too light and get jostled into froth, � observed Connor.

Methos joined the hitherto �Scot heavy� conversation: �So, I have to drink a six-pack at a time? No problem.�

�That still would be quite a lift to get it out of the water�especially if he�s a bit tipsy. It has to be an easier weight or he might fall in.� (Richie was obviously applying some brainpower to the dilemma.)

�Drunken drowning? Ahr-r-rgh!� Methos protested.

�We could rig a pulley system, that will do it. Put one off this tree and one over there. He could tie off at this branch and walk over to pick the six-pack he wanted. Say, MacNair? Did you pack any pulleys?�

They all looked at the little blonde in question and she stared levelly back. �Was it on the list?� she grated out.

�Uh-h-h...� backpedaled Connor, recognizing that look and voice.

�Then, NO!�

Making camp was relatively easy. Duncan worked on the outside of the trailer, hooking up hoses and drains, checking levels, setting blocks, and swearing only once when he failed to clear the hitch on the back of the truck and received a resounding knock on his knee. (He limped for the next five minutes for sympathy.)

Connor managed to squeeze the boat and Bronco between the scattered trees and still get it into the SAME campsite. He had to swing in all of the mirrors on the truck, fold down the boat canopy, and swear a lot, but no trees fell down and everyone who chanced to look up (and gasp in alarm) considered it a success. (He danced around congratulating himself for the next five minutes and got no sympathy at all.)

Methos set up his thermostatic beer dispenser beneath a likely shady pine and it took him the entire time to do so and involved a lot of leveling, muttering, a tarp, several ropes, and the most comfortable camp chair. The Scots merely shook their heads and worked around him.

They shook their heads at Richie, as well, and the redhead wisely just picked a chair and sat and watched them work.

::::: Tidbits of conversations :::::

�Ahr-r-rgh! Whose idea was it to explore the whole campground on bike?� protested Connor. He pulled his helmet off with a peculiar expression on his face. �That seat is so hard, I can�t feel my��

�Connor!� barked Duncan, jerking his head at MacNair, sitting with her book.

��-My, uh, well, I can�t feel MUCH,� finished the sputtering Scot. He glared at Duncan, then at Methos who was grinning at him from beneath his tree. Richie coasted up and stopped on his mountain bike as well.

MacNair reached down into the bag beside her and offered a handful to the trio. �Peanuts?� Her expression was wickedly demure ... if such a thing was possible.

Duncan coughed and hung his head beneath his bike helmet. Methos said �HA!� from beneath his tree.

�Hummph!� snorted Connor. �Most certainly NOT!�

FLASHBACK INTERLUDE :: required for all HL stories.

Conversation heard over walkie-talkies regarding a dying alternator in the Suburban that occurred on the last steep, winding, narrow mountain road approximately 60 miles from the campground.

"Is it dead yet?" inquired Connor, keeping a fair distance from the trailer ahead of him.

"Yep. I'm dead," solemnly announced Duncan. "Let's see how far I can coast down the hill."

"You want to coast down this mountain with 7000 lbs of trailer riding your hitch?" returned Connor via walkie-talkie. (In the background, he could hear Methos yelling, "NO COASTING! NO COASTING!")

"Ignore that man in the background," returned Duncan.

"Okay-y-y-y," drawled Connor and he turned on his emergency flashers so the traffic behind him would back off. �Pull off when you�re going too slow and we�ll jump it again.�

Thus the caravan continued: jumpstart--drive--coast--jumpstart--drive--coast--jumpstart--drive--coast until they limped into the next town and the Texaco.

"Whew," said MacNair. "I think I need a beer!"

END FLASHBACK, much to Methos� joy.

�Big Tree.�

�Big tree?�

�The sign says, �Big Tree,� so we�re going to see.�

�We�ve driven five hours on villainous mountain roads that required jumper cable rescuing, �let�s-see-how-far-we-can-get-just-by-COASTING-down-the-mountain-with-a-7000-lb-trailer-hooked-up-to-our-behinds� effort�and instead of hitting a likely lake, we�re going off following a little sign that says, �Big Tree?��

�Easy there, Rich. Sometimes you find interesting things by following signs like these.�

It was merely a big tree.

They had to walk 1000 feet to view it and read all the plaques before heading back to the main road. It was the largest Ponderosa Pine in the state and approximately 500 years old, to Connor�s amusement. From then on, all anyone had to say was �Big Tree� and everyone cracked up laughing.

Except Methos, who though it was somehow connected with his roost beneath the pine near his beer dispenser. He had added a tent and a canopy to his little corner of the camp and tossed crackers, stale blueberry bagels, and fleshy peach pits to the chipmunks. When he dozed off, his whole area was invaded by small wildlife and they carried off any edible they could find. By the time camping was done, the little beggars had snooped through his tent, his clothes, gotten chips out of his drink holder, stolen his donuts, and pulled all the soft fluff from the backside of his tablecloth to ferret away in their nests!

Methos never liked that old tablecloth anyway.

They drove in from the store after getting supplies and MacNair chuckled as Duncan parked the truck.

�What�s so funny?�

�Methos picked up some jugs.�

�Jugs?� questioned Connor, craning his neck. �He just got here�how could he be out of beer already?�

�Wrong kind of jugs, kinsman,� replied Duncan. He pointed to Methos� corner of the campsite.

Methos was lolled in his sling chair and two buxom babes in shorts and bikini tops were sharing some frothy beer with him. They had obviously been there for a while ... the conversation was animated and two extra camp chairs had been pulled up�one for each girl.

�Damn!� announced Richie. �It�s a babe magnet! Why didn�t I think of that?�

�We would have less dust to contend with if we�d stayed at the Highlander,� grumbled Methos.

�What? We have two Highlanders staying with us�what are you talking about?�

The lean immortal pointed at a sign they were about to pass. The Highlander Hotel. It had a stout, kilt wearing man on the sign and on the side of the hotel. Everyone in the car stared � then broke out laughing.

�He had Duncan�s face,� Rich chortled.

�And Connor�s legs!�

�My legs look better than that!� protested the elder Scot.

�I�m not leaving my beer dispenser.�

�Now, now, Methos ... Richie volunteered to watch it for you.�

�DRINK it, you mean.�

�Lookit, he hauled it up here and offered to make a keg run anytime you needed a refill. The least you could do it let him use it for a babe magnet.�

�Hmmph, and by the time those babes decided to leave off the chatter and suds and get to the �action,� it was late and I was tired! Entirely too much �hanky� for not much �panky,� in that deal. They drank up my beer like fishes!�

When MacNair finished her bout of hysterical laughter, she went right back to convincing the ROG that he should come out on the fishing boat with them. Promises of �entertaining� and �lots of cold beers in the cooler� won him over ... eventually. (She had to follow him around like a pest for two hours, but eventually he caved in.)

::::: On The Boat :::::

The morrow dawned relentlessly hot, even at the lake. Methos was in the cooler after a cold one before the boat had even been untied from the floating dock! MacNair went forward with him to the open bow and they left the back of the boat to the two Scots.

Duncan steered them away from the boat ramp, driving with one hand and holding a book detailing the lake and how it was best fished for each type of catch. While he captained, he talked aloud, giving everyone in the 18-foot boat the details. �Trolling flies in zone 1 and 3, as well as along the west shore, can produce a number of nice fish. Mid-summer months, try trolling with sinking lines and wet flies such as tied-down caddis in orange, yellow and green. Brightly colored streamers (especially reds and yellows) stripped erratically past the redds (fish nest sites near the reeds in zone 3) will generally elicit vicious strikes from the defensive brookies. Trolling along shoreline shelves using bucktail coachmen (#8-10), Mickey Finns (#8-10), and grasshopper imitations will...�

Connor was rigging fishing poles, bent over two tackle boxes and using his teeth to nip off old line. He rummaged like a chipmunk through the assortment of hooks, swivels, sinkers, line, power bait, marshmallows, velveeta cheese, leaders, flashers, jigs, spinners, flies, triple teasers, rooster tails, wedding rings, plugs, and other lures ... upon which he kept a running commentary going as to what he held, why he liked it, why it wouldn�t work right here, before moving on to the next item in the eight trays of fishing �stuff� that he had at his disposal!

Neither one was listening to the other.

MacNair and Methos had to listen to them both.

And that was before the arguments started.

�It says to fish along this drop-off and then troll along this shoreline until you hit the dam. Turn North from there and head straight for the bald scab��

�Who cares what the damn book says? It�s likely written by someone sitting in Arizona. Let�s just use our fish finder and snoop around until we find �em. Then we can toss every kind of lure and bait at them until something works.�

�Connor, you NEVER want to listen to the experts!�

�I�ve fished long enough to BE a friggin� expert!�

�I don�t want to be changing tactics every thirty minutes just to find out what they like. That�s a whole lot of rigging and bait changes and is a waste of time.�

�Fine, you big baby, I�LL change all the rigging! I even brought FAKE worms for you to use and the real ones for me!�

�I�m not afraid to use real bait, you moron! I just want to use all of these books that we�ve collected! Hell, even YOU bought some of these�in fact, your name is in the front of this one!�

�Which proves that I have the perfect right to ignore him.�

�It�s a �her�.�

�Her,� he snorted, barely looked up from the tackle box. �Say-y, are you going to use this pole or this one?�

�You leave my new rod alone! Use that beat up one that you swear catches fish every time.�

�Fine. Head for the drop off and toss the anchor.�

�No, I�m trolling just the way this book SAYS you�re suppose to! Some of us actually want to CATCH some fish, not just feed worms to the lake!�

�Suit yourself, but your pole is rigged for jigging.�

�WHAT? I told you I wanted to troll!�

�Didn�t hear you. I must be sitting too close to the motor.�

Somewhere in the midst of this rumbling argument, Methos turned his head very s-l-o-w-l-y to the side and looked at MacNair. They were both slathered with sunscreen and laying in the sun on the bow of the boat.

�Is it always like this?� he innocently inquired.

�No. Sometimes it�s cold and you can�t lay on the deck and sun yourself.�

�The arguing Scots,� he clarified. �Are they always like this?�

�Mostly. Entertaining, aren�t they?�

Methos considered this last. The boat was circling in the lake while Duncan applied more effort and concentration to the argument. There was one loud yell from Connor (�Ahr-r-rg!�) when he stuck his thumb with a fishhook, but otherwise, the argument stayed at the same volume. Sullen thunder with no rain in sight. The name-calling was getting invigorating.

�How do you endure it?� asked Methos.

MacNair didn�t turn her head ... she just hoisted her can of beer, by one finger in the pull-tab hole, and said, �I endure ... I somehow endure.�

The fishing was slow. The sun was hot. The bugs bugged them.

MacNair lit two citronella candles and put one fore and aft to take care of the bugs.

ONLY the bugs�the two Scots remained relentless.

Duncan hooked a fish and then lost it. Connor laughed and jibed at him until he lost the next one! They accused each other of deliberately shifting weight in the boat so the other would lose his balance, they bickered over who was casting over whose line. Duncan swore Connor put old line on his reel and it had been cast and rewound so many times that now it snarled with each retrieval. Connor reminded him that it was a NEW reel and, therefore, NEW line. There was only one needlefish lure and they squabbled over it until Methos nicely suggested flipping a coin.

MacNair had another beer. Methos had two. He did notice that after a six-pack and a half, that the quarreling clansmen weren�t quite so bothersome. They had slipped into the realm of entertainment.

Yeah, baby, entertain me, thought MacNair. She was glad she had her shades on. Not a soul in the boat could tell whom she was staring at!

Duncan, bronzed like some old coin, had stripped to shorts and his boat shoes. Currently, he was standing over the motor well, straddling the gas lines, to cast his line. Sunscreen glistened across him and when he bent over, a silver chain and amulet swung free of his chest hair and glittered like a silver salmon.

�You can�t thunk me. I�m already lying down,� murmured MacNair.

Connor MacLeod, who had also stripped to his cut-offs, was barefoot. He stood on the side of the boat with the toes of one foot curled over the side, unafraid of falling in despite the occasional pitch of the boat. The sparseness of his frame made every movement seem quicker, as if there was some tricky slight-of-hand to his casts. He wore dark sunglasses, but they seemed to spend most of their time dangling around his neck by a red corky.

�You either,� murmured MacNair again, admiring the elder Scot�s lean profile.

�You�re muttering, blondie,� observed Methos.

�I�m just remarking that they can�t thunk me no matter how many clothes they take off.�

�Ahh,� he returned. �Because you�re already lying down.� He paused a moment. �You can�t thunk me with that halter top, either!�

�Rats. You�re unthunkable.�

Methos grinned beneath his sunglasses and sipped his beer. �What is that elder rascal wearing on his ankle?�

Connor had on an ankle tie composed of various sizes and shades of purple beads. MacNair studied it and decided that it was from k�lynn, the CDC specter. She was rowdy, innocent, blissfully insane, and merrily enchanted with immortals�especially Connor�none of that particularly in order. She must have given it to Connor before they left on vacation ... and now he wore it in deference to the little spook.

�I�m surprised she didn�t hijack herself along with us,� remarked MacNair.

Her beer giggled. MacNair sat up and peered into the pull-tab hole suspiciously. �What are you doing in there, k�lynn! You come out right now�I don�t want to drink you!�

�Sil�y Mc�nair. Can�t drink a spookable. Lik� bubbles�wheee! Kool in here.�

�Well,� MacNair replied dubiously, still peering into the can, �next beer, you go and haunt Methos� can. Pull his tongue once for me.� The can giggled again and was silent.

... ten minutes later ...

�Ahr-r-rgh! What the hell?� sputtered Methos, glaring into his beer can indignantly.

MacNair just laughed, head down on the deck.

::::::::::::::::::::::: Miscellaneous comments heard on the boat :::::::::::::::::::::::

�I don�t know how you get any toe rings on those little short toes of yours, MacNair.�

�Just because you have �seven ring� toes, you don�t have to go picking at my lil� piggies!�

�I would really like to troll now, Connor.�

�The only troll we have is on the prow of the boat. Be my guest.�

�Hey! No insults from the back quarter,� retorted Methos.

�One thing you should know, ROG ... don�t ever complain that it�s hot,� MacNair offered at one point.

�?�

�Just wait and see. Someone will forget...�

... Forty minutes later, with the sun beating down...

�Wow, it�s hot,� announced Connor.

Duncan, still straddling the Mercury outboard, stretched the distance to the precariously balanced Connor MacLeod and shoved him�hard�with one hand. The startled elder Scot had time for one yelp, pinwheeling his arms trying to keep his footing, before pitching over the side of the boat and into the lake.

Silence. The boat rocked gently a few times and centered again between the anchor ropes. MacNair sat up and switched to Methos� side of the boat to watch.

�AHR-R-RGH!� Connor surfaced with a roar. He spluttered and coughed, shook his hair out of his eyes, and glared at Duncan.

�Nyah-nyah-nah-nah,� returned the younger Scot. �I am impervious to �the eyes of doom�!�

�Come on in, kinsman, the water is fine,� catcalled Connor from between clenched teeth.

�Ha! Cold as the breath of the Devil�s Grandmother, perhaps! I�ll stay right here.�

�Wuss.�

�Your daddy. I bet your �peanuts� are blue!�

�Chicken lips.�

�Pppbht!� Duncan laughed, all muscular and sungolden. �That�s what you get for complaining you�re too hot.�

The names and rude insults continued back and forth. Methos inclined his head to MacNair and whispered, �You were right about the entertaining part. I thought you were talking about the fishing!�

�Just wait. The fishing will start after a bit.�

�?�

Connor slung insult after insult at Duncan ... and the younger Scot laughed all the harder, switching into French, Italian, Gaelic and other dialects right along with the floating MacLeod beside the boat. MacNair didn�t know what they were calling each other by this time, but she could tell it was worse than �double digit banana.� Methos snickered at particularly barbed comments, but offered no translation ... MacNair didn�t want to know anyway.

Connor finally barked a string of guttural sounds with some odd clicks in them. Duncan looked perplexed, but Methos wrapped one long arm around MacNair and launched himself to the starboard side with her. Three hundred odd pounds of weight shifted in the boat�and Duncan, protesting with a bellow, fought for balance, dropped his pole ... and went headfirst over the side with a splash.

�Hey!� MacNair protested. �He got lake goo in my brew!� She glared into her can. It giggled and announced that nothing had been allowed into the can because there wasn�t any room for beer, spook, AND lake water.

Duncan came up with a roar. �AHR-R-RGH!� It took him a few moments to even find the boat again, since he surfaced facing away from it and Connor had wisely ducked beneath the surface. �METHOS!� he yelled.

�Hey, don�t yell at me,� protested the ROG. �Connor ordered all passengers to starboard, immediately. I just complied.� He looked smugly at the indignant Scot.

�He did not!�

�Did too ... you just don�t know Zulu.� The smug look grew more pronounced. �And I do. Your kinsman has that �Captain�s voice� down pat, you know.�

�I�m�going�to�GET�you!�

�Tut-tut. I have the beer dispenser.�

MacNair chimed in on the end of this last. �And you wouldn�t let me kill him for that damn thing, so what makes you think I�ll let you kill him now?�

Duncan was silent, glowering. Connor was coasting silently up from behind with just his eyes and the top of his head showing. In another moment, the fray was on off the starboard bow and consisted of lots of yelling, dunking, and splashing.

Methos and MacNair watched for a moment and then Methos remarked casually, �I haven�t heard Zulu for a long time ... I nearly missed what he said.�

�Glad you didn�t. And Methos?� MacNair added, pointing at the melee in the water, �THIS is fishing.�

Methos looked at the two in the water�now wrestling. Duncan had Connor in a headlock, but kept having to break it because Connor kept dragging him below the water surface until he was nearly drowning. There was a lot of laughter involved in the yelling, dunking, and splashing by this time.

�Big fish,� the ROG said.

�Cute fish,� added MacNair.

�Damn, this water�s cold!� announced Connor, floating and catching his breath.

�Cold fish,� informed Methos.

�Just piss on yourself, Connor�you�ll warm up,� jeered Duncan.

�Already did�but come here, Duncan, and I�ll warm YOU up too!� chuckled Connor right back. He swam a little closer to the younger immortal.

�Ahr-r-rgh! G�way from me, you barbarian!�

�Red fish,� added MacNair. �Somehow that isn�t quite as Suessian as One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.�

�Sure it is.� Methos pointed. �One fish and two fish. Duncan is the red fish, and Connor's the blue fish.�

�Connor�s not blue.�

�That water is probably 63 degrees. Trust me, he�s blue.�

�Ok-a-ay.�

There were no further complaints about how hot it was. When Methos got too warm, he stuck his head over the side and got it wet ... then shook like a dog and splattered MacNair as well. (He learned to never do this when she was napping.)

::::: At the Campground :::::

(Yelled to the campers before dinner by an unnamed immortal.)

�Hey! Do you want your hamburgers raw with dirt on them, or burnt with dirt on them?�

(He can�t be named because others will hunt him down.)

Methos had strayed from his beer dispenser for the first time in camp. He was perched on an overlook near the swiftly moving river with a paper. He had cursed his way through the sporting section when the two Scots showed up, studying the river below.

�Let�s jump in it.�

�Did the squirrels rent your head this year, Connor? The water is cold and moving too damn fast! I�ll drown!�

�Not if I�m with you. Let�s jump.�

�Hmmph. We can�t possibly stay together during the jump for you to help me. And besides, I don�t think you can buck a current like that�I don�t even think I can!� complained Duncan.

�Heh. We�ll tie our wrists together so we don�t lose each other.�

�God, you are nuts!�

Silence.

�Okay, let�s do it.�

Methos shook his head behind his paper, refusing to look. There was a half an hour break ... then he heard the pounding of footsteps and looked up just in time to see the two immortals run past. They had tied a three-foot length of nylon rope between their wrists and were in perfect step. Down the trail they raced, Connor shortening his running stride to match Duncan�s slightly slower pace. They reached the embankment evenly and lunged out over open space ... and plummeted out of sight.

Methos stood to look. Connor fell without a sound, but Duncan let loose one stentorian shout under the pressure of adrenaline before they hit the water with a ka-boosch! They reappeared twenty feet downstream drifting fast with the current, grappled each other for a moment in the chill and momentary disorientation, and then swam for shore in matching strokes. The rope seemed to make no difference at all.

�They�ve done that before,� announced Rich Ryan, who had watched the event from a stone�s throw away. �They figured out how to run down the path side by side and how to swim stroke for stroke too quickly.�

�Duncan has the upstream position too, because he�s stronger and Connor can use him as a barrier a bit,� observed Methos. �They�ve definitely spent some time roped together. I bet there�s a story in that!�

From below: �HEY, RICH! JUMP!�

From above: �NOT ON YOUR LIFE!�

From below: �CHICKEN!�

From above: �BRAWK-BRAWK-BRAWK!�

From below: �WE�LL CATCH YOU!�

From above: �HA!�

From below: �C�MON. NO WORRIES, RICH! WE�LL HELP YOU!�

Richie looked at Methos and shook his head, then they both listened to the catcalls from the two Scots below. They had made it to a snag and were hanging off the downstream branches in the slower eddy. Duncan�s hair was loose and waved in the water like the streamers of moss wafting off the downed pine. Mossy rocks and mossy Scots, thought Methos. Why isn�t MacNair down here to see this?

Richie interrupted the ROG�s thoughts with: �I�m going to end up doing this, aren�t I.� (Statement, not a question.)

Methos looked back at the redhead, who had a hand on top of his head as if he couldn�t believe what his brain was telling him. �Yes, you will.�

�I�m going to regret it as well, aren�t I?�

�Yes. You will.� Methos was utterly serious. �You�ll still do it, though.�

... five minutes later ...

�AHR-R-RGH!� Richie�s yell of shock wafted up the bluff. �This water is FREEZING!�

::::: Evening Conversations :::::

Duncan saw the flashlight beam circling wildly on the camper window. It was late, but he had been reading, so he rose to investigate and found Methos searching around with his flashlight.

�What is it, Methos?�

�I�m trying to find out WHAT kind of bug it is that only comes out at night and flies around my tent like a fat bumblebee with a back pack on!�

�?� Duncan blinked into the flashlight beam.

�Listen.�

Sure enough, the drone of something flying low and heavy reached his ears. They had to search for another ten minutes before they located the large striped beetle that was coasting around.

�Fine,� said the ROG. �I don�t care if he�s flying around ... I just wanted to know what it was. Stupid bug sounded like a B-52!�

The campfire was a roar and they sat close to keep the chill off. Connor and Rich made smores and silence descended over the circle of immortals while they ate. Then, once the sticky confection was gone, they spent several minutes licking the marshmallow off their fingers!

�I thought smores weren�t suppose to be � so � messy,� Duncan announced.

�If it doesn�t get all over your face, its not done right,� informed Rich. He had marshmallow above one eye from swatting at a mosquito�which inspired a heated debate as to just why a mosquito could stab through the skin of an immortal and not get zapped by the quickening healing more instantaneously! Methos suggested that an immortal in the woods having small bugs exploding into fireballs around them would probably alert the nearby mortals that something was seriously erroneous about their fishing buddy.

�Bug zappers R not us,� was heard stated somewhere in the debate.

�You wouldn�t need a flashlight. Just stand an immortal next to you for bug bait.�

Duncan and Connor somehow managed to coax Methos into having some scotch with them.

After a hot day spent drinking beer.

It was hot. Much beer was consumed.

Actually, the ROG had a whisky in one hand and a beer in the other.

By nightfall, he couldn�t stand up without a slant.

After singing �Baby, I�m Amazed� at the top of his lungs with the radio (and pantomiming playing the piano along with the band) Duncan decided he�d had enough to drink and put a crimp in the hose on the thermostatically controlled beer dispenser with a clothespin.

Everyone listened to Methos sing for the next hour until the alcohol level dropped and the REAL really old guy blinked back into existence.

�I didn�t do anything silly, did I?�

�Silly? You? Naw-w-w!� casually remarked Rich.

�Ahr-r-rgh,� murmured Duncan beneath his breath.

MacNair put away the camcorder�

::::: Another evening :::::

The two Scots were pickled this time and listening to them argue, in Gaelic, with their speech all slurried together was enough to make everyone else wish they could put a crimp in something.

This train of thought was solidified when Duncan stepped too close to the fire and burnt his bare calf on the iron fire ring. His bellowed �AHR-R-R-RGH!� of pain could be heard throughout the campground.

�Pay no attention to the yelling man at my fire, folks,� announced MacNair wearily. �I�m just making smores and he thinks I stole his chocolate.�

�How about, �I over-toasted his marshmallow� instead?� helpfully supplied Methos.

�You promised not to yell,� she reminded the two Highlanders.

�We prommiss�d you hell?� slurred Connor. Duncan had an arm across his neck for balance while he rubbed his sore calf. �On vacashion?�

�There, there, MacNair,� soothed Methos. �Here. Have another smore. In another few days, this will be over.�

�Can�t you make them be quieter?� she pleaded, sneaking twice the chocolate onto her graham cracker.

�Hey, you two,� Methos called to the two inebriated Highlanders. �Do you know why a square bathtub doesn�t get a bathtub ring?�

�??� said Connor.

�??� said Duncan.

�That ought to hold them for twenty minutes.�

MacNair
July 5 2002 -- typed on a dinosaur laptop that has Windows 3.1, no mouse, and no battery! It took us thirty minutes to remember how to get it out of DOS!

The true tales hiding in here:

Ending up by a river instead of a lake because MacNair was confuzzled.

Knocking a knee against the hitch of the truck.

Squeezing the boat and Bronco between the trees.

The trip down the mountain using the jump-start � drive � coast method!

Bike riding with men. :-D

Big Tree. (His nickname is �Big Red� and he�s 26 feet in diameter.)

The chipmunks did indeed thieve everything in camp, including the fluff off the tablecloth! One came and perched on my sandal begging for a donut I was eating. (She/he got part of it.)

The Highlander Hotel. (I almost snorted my coffee when I saw it~!)

Citronella candles in the boat DO ward off the bugs.

Conversations about MacNair�s little piggy toes. Grrrrr~!

Looking for the bug that sounded like a fat bumblebee with a backpack on.

And, since I know you will ask: Did Richie lure in any �babes� with Methos� babe magnet of a beer dispenser? No, he did not. He lured in a trio of wanna-be fishermen with beer bellies and they lurked all day�effectively chasing all �babes� in camp away!

Methos� reply? (After he quit rolling around on the ground, laughing.) �Next time, just draw them a draft and pee in it before giving it to them.�

(I whapped him with my sandals for that one! I swear�the stuff these muses leave in my mind sometimes!)

The �merrily� put into this story was added just for lynnann, who looks for them. :-D

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