Re. "Are we dangerous parents," by Alan Kesselheim, Writers on the Range column, Sept. 19
It began even before the kids were born, more than 20 years ago. Marypat finally got pregnant after years of miscarriages. We were halfway through winter in a cabin hundreds of miles from the nearest pavement, halfway through a 14-month canoe expedition, alone, vulnerable and perfectly content. The advice we got, from family, from friends, was to come home. Don't risk the pregnancy, everyone said. It's not worth it.
We questioned ourselves. Were the risks too high? The scenarios were endless and terrifying. Still teetering on the brink of pulling the plug, we decided we would paddle the 40 miles to the nearest town, from which we would leap into the final summer of travel across the wild tundra of northeastern Canada, and then make our decision.
What fact checking. Forty miles of canoeing in the winter must be really brutal. What bull.
Name the town, name the lake, name the portages, name the 14 months that the water is not frozen. The tundra even.
I must have grown up in that rare part of the north where the water was frozen. Forty miles from town and mail, phone, Internet or whatever must have worked, great.
Please quit printing lies as fact. Start a fantasy section for folks that like to write and read it.