Introduction
I love camping and hiking and am here to tell you about some of my favorite recollections. Although I have great memories from many of the trips that I have attended over the decades, the dozen or so mentioned below are particularly vivid and anchored with a significant fire experience. I hope that I have described them well for you.
A bit about the language…
I would neither speak this way professionally nor discuss Joey’s wedding arrangements with Father Tony in such a manner. However, my partners and I have escaped all our familial and professional responsibilities on these once-per-year trips, far removed from humanity. Due to our decades of experience in this crazy world, we find the vulgarity colorful, creative, and Khaadamned hilarious. It is a mainstay of our collective experience.
Something about the drinking…
I re-read my old notes, postings and journals occasionally. It seems that my partners and I may come across as a bunch of drunks. I am here to tell you that this is simply not true. Any backpacking is physically demanding; it is frequently very hard work. Our version entails heavy backpacks (the “package”) being hauled up steep trails for endless hours, at high altitude, in the rain, while sometimes boiling and sometimes freezing – in the same day. Our bodies burn an incredible amount of fuel under those conditions. The usual day-hikes include rougher off-trail hiking albeit with smaller packs. Even at camp, the endless wood gathering and preparation brings a sweat. The consumed booze is quickly processed down to its base sugar, and the alcohol leaves a nice glow that is appreciated by all of us. Rarely are we drunk out there. If anyone was ever drunk, aka “gassed up”, it was our dads back in the day.
Finally, the characters…
I have known the guys referred to below for a very long time… most of us attended the same grade school – and never lost contact. I met Ed, the exception to that, while in college. I sometimes refer to Ron and Gary as “The Executives”; well, they are, professionally. I also use the term “Big Boys”; Gary and Ed are large muscular guys – they’re BIG! I sometimes add Rich (aka Ricker) in there too… he’s tall and tips the scale above two hundred. Ron is never in that group because he is still 199.5. My younger brother Jape is there often; my older brother Chris appears as well. “Klay” is my personal name for Clayton, my nephew. I chose not to name my wife and children; you all know them, and anyone reading this who does not, could find out in a ten second search on the InterWeb, but I just didn’t want to do it… maybe in case they didn’t want to be a part of this madness.
My Campfire Memories
We are about to enter the forest and shortly thereafter, the wilderness. Actually, it’s more than that; the forest is a large northern national forest. The wilderness is an even more specific area within, and has a more restrictive federal definition, including closure to all mechanical transport craft – yep, even bicycles. This particular hiking trailhead lies just below tree line at about ninety-eight hundred feet in altitude, it’s drizzling and chilly, rain had been forecast, and I have my upper shell on. The rare un-soaked, non-vandalized and unusually legible trailhead marquee official posted document reads, in part: “…total fire ban in effect…” blah, blah, blah.
Klay: “Uncle Dave, look at this.”
Dave: “That’s for other people.”
Camping, whether in a county, state, federal zone, or your buddy’s back yard, includes a fire, else I wouldn’t do it. No, kiddies, not just for emergencies – as some urban bureaucrats would have it – for ambiance, and all that it entails.
Credit goes to my father who exposed me to the campfire at an early age. However, upon deep investigation, I found that my MOTHER was the impetus behind camping in general, not Pappy. SHE had done so with her father way, way back, not so him. Even as children, my siblings and friends used the fire to cook, for warmth, and to keep the relentless mosquitos at bay.
Smoke-filled campground back then.
Smoke filled mountain valley fifty years on.
As kids, we camped, without moms, maybe three weekends in the warmer months; no matter the temperature, we always had a fire. I cannot confirm this, but I have been told that I was camping by age five in some way; old pictures go back only until about me at age seven. Perhaps that meant local forest preserves, I’m not sure. As far as actual camping, the locations were almost always northern Wisconsin. Back then, these were really rustic campgrounds: rickety tables, no grills in the sites, horribly stinky pit toilets, and pitted, sometimes ungraded gravel approach roads. Also, few people – except on those national holiday weekends. We would arrive, excited, set up the tents, and get the fire going – with the old-style cardboard book of matches. The mosquitoes were indeed awful… we were always chewed to raw hamburger. We would scavenge in the campground for wood – mostly sticks – some as large as mid-grade.
Whoa, what in hell is mid-grade*?
| Light-duty | 1/8” – 1/2” diameter |
| Mid-grade | 1” – 2” diameter |
| Logs | 3” diameter and larger |
Hmmm, there’s even more to those categories*:
| Roundies | Any log not split; 99% of wilderness wood |
| Rotten-crotch | Almost useless; mostly decomposed |
| Bones | Tiny white twigs, usually under conifers |
| Sappy bitch | Obvious, no? A real treat with bare hands |
| Widow-maker | Unsplittable/unbreakable due to joints or size |
| All-nighter | Anything that will smolder all night: big; flat; semi-rotten |
*That nomenclature was not finalized until many years into our adult backpacking trips.
Back to camping… We also employed ropes to scavenge – our fishing anchor lines – with a foot-long mid-grade roundy tied on the end for throwing. We’d hurl this rig over and over, up and over the dead branches of the nearby monstrous red pines, pulling many of the limbs down. We were told never to cut down trees, especially live ones – green wood would hardly burn anyway. We were kids, not idiots. We had to wait until the next morning to go on a proper “wood run”. Mostly with the family station-wagon, but sometimes with Jerry’s pick-up. He being a rustic house owner outdoorsman and friend to my father. The dads usually departed early on their kid-free fishing outings and we were left alone with hotdogs to eat and any activity we could think of.
Routinely, we created the best white-smoke “fire” that we could – just to keep the bugs off of us. My father, ever the bargain hunter, would, at best, have supplied us with a few rusty, leaking cans of mosquito repellent that barely sprayed – more like pissed – just to save a buck. You’ve heard of this product line OFF!®…no way, not for us, that useless toxic venom was more appropriately called ON! The haphazard hikes about the area (sometimes miles and hours) regularly resulted in collecting white and paper birch sleeves – roundies having lost their rotten guts. This was before any of us had packs of any kind, we’d have arms full and dragging miscellaneous crap all the time. Back at camp, we would stuff green sappy pine needles into the top half of the cylinders, and dry and dead needles into the bottom. We would then mount these on foot-long sticks and embed them in the sandy soil near the fire. With a burning stick, we would ignite the dry needles; those burning would cook the green needles and give off perfectly white and dense smoke. We sometimes had a half-dozen of these rolling. With a breeze, the white smoke sometimes filled the campsites nearby… big deal, we were kids! If it was raining, or we couldn’t locate any sleeves, we’d simply grab arms-full of dry needles and dump until mounded directly on the fire… MAN O MAN did that smoke. Occasionally, we were actually concerned (seldom) that the smoke would be prominent enough that the entire campground would get smoked out. There was no desire to attract unwanted adults.
By the time that the (often drunk) dads returned – sometimes after dark – we’d have the fire ready and dialed down to cook status. All the log-run product would have been trimmed, cut and stacked; we used a small bow saw, hatchet and axe for that task. We had also cooked and frequently eaten up to a dozen hotdogs each throughout the day.
Once the fire was burning, it was never allowed to burn out.
We rarely had big fires with the dads. Occasionally we would be treated to a trip over to Jerry’s nearby house and its large fire pit, with huge log surrounds as benches. Those guys would continue to drink, but we neither cared, nor knew of the significance – if any. We would really blaze it up there – sometimes 9” x 6’ roundies in a traditional pyramid bonfire format. We’d have cocoa, marshmallows, and even s’mores – although rarely.
One time, years and years ago, my younger brother Jape, younger buddy, and next-door neighbor Rich, and I, were left in a fairly remote spot that was off-trail, off-road, had no crappers and no formal camp site or maintained grounds at all. I may have been ten or eleven years old. I think that we had brought along a fold-up toilet seat on a stand – but that’s a story for another time. This area differed from the norm though, the forest contained mostly deciduous trees and it was autumn. Anyway, we went through the usual morning crap with the dads, and they ditched us for trout fishing at some unknown creek miles away. We had no plans and no instructions… so we just diddled around in the fire. If the bugs were present at all, they were manageable. At some point we left the fire to go goof around in the large, busted-zipper canvas tent. We were playing “time bomb” with a wind-up clock. This was well before electronic anything for an alarm, so I guess one of the dads had brought the clock along to jar them out of their collective stupor each morning. The game continued until one of us glanced outside and saw flames entirely surrounding the fire ring. We all jumped up, ran out, and quickly assessed the situation – the inferno was already almost out of control with burning leaves. Being a remote spot, and before any portable water filtration was common, we had only our three-and-a-half gallon, long-nosed, red water jug and the mildly murky lake – thirty yards away.
Initially we stomped around everywhere and tried to kick and scrape the burning material nearer the actual fire ring made of minimal rocks. We were getting nowhere… I think one of us grabbed a pot and ran down to the lake for a fill-up. By the time the pot was hurriedly returned, half the liquid had spilled out – SHIT! That combined action continued, but we were approaching panic. Soooo, we grabbed our only drinking water and delicately began pouring where the fire was worst – and nearest the forest proper. One of us with the pot move, one of us still raking and kicking, and one of us wasting our life water; we got it under control. I believe that we were a bit shaken, but obviously greatly relieved. We settled ourselves further with a few hotdogs, sans liquid – obviously – we no longer had any potable drinking water. How would we explain this to the dads, we three thought out loud.
Back then we didn’t utter “fuck”, and didn’t even know of it, as innocent lads, but I guarantee we were thinking that we were in fact… fucked. The penalties would be immeasurable. We had no idea when they would return, so we triple-timed it cleaning up the wide-spread scorched-earth aftermath, and ultimately decided to re-fill the jug – from the lake. We were both giggling and dreading the first sip out of that sewage – well, I guess it wasn’t that bad, but we sure weren’t going to risk drinking it straight up. Eventually they strolled in – GASSED UP! Dinner was sluggishly prepared and they had no clue of the earlier holocaust – we had camouflaged the reconstruction as well as The Predator. Sitting and eating around the now nice fire, we watched with anticipation as my father took the first sip. Remember, back then there were no translucent cups, or disposable faux glasses. We had only the highly toxic low-quality plastic 12oz mugs in select colors – we loved them. Couldn’t discern water quality through that junk no matter how hard you tried. So Pappy, being no idiot, sensed our apprehension and noticed that we weren’t drinking, “What?” as he frowned and took a sip… “This water is FINE!” We were then completely absolved. We may have sipped it then, just to choke down the clearly burned chicken, but only actually drank it the next morning when mixed with our beloved all-purpose sterilizing Tang.
Yeah… Firemasters!
Most of my childhood summer family vacations were dominated by camping – with a fire of course. With my siblings, the fires were always controlled, in the designated grate (common even then in National and State parks), and medium sized at most – all due to the presence of our parents. Wood collection was similar on those trips in that we scavenged for light-duty and mid-grade. In the state and federal facilities back then, there would sometimes be cut logs in the campsite, sometimes even SPLIT! We always brought along a small bow saw, hatchet and axe for some light-duty log work. All those fires were ignited with matches, having supplied the base with our packed newspaper, some paper snack wrappers, toilet paper, or other scrap paper acquired during the long drives.
As teenagers and young adults, we had picnics in the nearby forest preserves. Those fires were always modest, using scavenged wood, sometimes pallet scrap, and we occasionally brought logs from our home fireplace supply. The base burnable material was whatever paper product any attendees had with them and even junk from the garbage can… ignition was still usually accomplished via matches (those cardboard books were still free then), but eventually we moved on to Bic lighters. We did cook all sorts of food… canned goods, hobo pies, and even decent steaks.
Once we started camping without any parents present, the fires grew larger – but using the same fuel and ignition methods. Occasionally, we brought along what became known as Instant-BTU – any highly flammable liquid… old charcoal lighter fluid, cigarette lighter juice and dirty gasoline that had been used to clean up grease or paint products were the common types. We brought along an old Coleman pump white gas stove initially but moved on to propane when the canisters became readily available. Most food was still cooked over the fire. All meat was grilled on the fire. More difficult fire preparation and usage really didn’t begin until we ventured into the wilderness… backpacking.
As part of basic training, I made sure that I knew how to start a fire without matches and without a butane lighter. Steel and flint striker are pretty simple, although the base fuel is very important. Using a wooden hand drill or bow-drill combo can be difficult and time consuming, depending on the materials available to build those tools. I was certain that I could start a fire with any of those somewhat unassisted methods. Fritos were tested as a starter-helper once – SUCCESS! I carry two lighters – Djeep, a few waterproof matches, and sometimes add in a flint set to possibly demonstrate to newcomers to the camp.
A fire is essential to me.
Out in the wilderness, if it’s dry, there is seldom any issue scavenging suitable material up to mid-grade. Larger wood destined for the fire as logs required either sawing or breaking to manageable length. We, the backpackers, started carrying a Sven Saw brand collapsible triangular bow saw. I believe that my father introduced this tool to us early on, but I have no recollection of where he heard about it. Coincidentally, I later worked with a guy from Minnesota whose brother had invented and patented that saw – a wealthy dude because of it. That thing is invaluable for our needs, no matter what you may have heard from the cadre of USFS: Leave-no-Trace preachers. If a specific purpose was dictating the wood size, the saw would be used (also on tree limbs just larger than mid-grade) … just buzz through them. Anything used simply for the ever-present fire needed only to be broken crudely. Simply swing the long log overhead and bring it down on a fulcrum – the best being a large knife-edged rock. There was even some betting on what could or could not be broken in this fashion.
Rain isn’t really a problem, unless it has been going on for an extended period of time, and everything is soaked. When backpacking, someone always carried white gas for our single-burner stove. Alternatively, that stuff works great for starting fires in wet conditions. Lightly pour or sprinkle some of the potent fluid on the already set firewood, use a fuel-moistened stick as a wand, light it, go low to the ground and bring that burning beauty into the main enhanced wood – the result is familiar to any outdoorsman:
WHOOOMF!
Whatever the weather or location, the members of the camp go to work in short order after arrival to retrieve firewood. We’ve had huge stacks of wood ready for cooking, rain, snow or the usual all day deal if we’re around the camp fishing and drinking. Someone would always grab an all-nighter too. I can only imagine what those rare passersby thought of our supply. USFS: Only when necessary, and then keep it small. Hah! We really do rarely have a large fire though.
Some Specific Sites
Location: Northern Highlands State Forest; Wisconsin
Elevation: Marshy flat lands
Conditions: Winter; very cold; -15°F and lower
My parents own a not-quite-remote, but more-than-rural rustic house (no running water, has wood burning stove and external outhouse). It is adjacent to state forest land, and we borrow some of that land for a fire pit and makeshift camping. Fires out there were generally very large – started with a multitude of flammable liquids and solids. The main fuel also varied quite a bit, with the most common being logs from downed trees in the area. There was a custom, small-time sawmill across the road, and over the years, the owner donated actual tons of not-quite-quarter-sawn yet not-quite-veneer scraps with bark still present on the four-to-eight-foot lengths of red and white pine. We used that stuff to make huge bonfires. We burned the garbage that we produced while staying in the house (easily vaporizing aluminum cans and melting glass). We burned old furniture, spoiled lumber, and immense logs… whatever was even remotely burnable and considered garbage went on the fire. The best fire, as I recall, was one in which we had already three-to-four-foot flames (above the log base), and about a five-foot diameter base – really rolling. On this guys-only trip, many had brought along cheapo low power fireworks: bottle rockets, and regular firecrackers – maybe some small Roman Candles as well. Two old plastic five-gallon buckets were packed full of this stuff, and then set right in the fire. It took a couple of minutes for the buckets to melt and burn, but then all the fireworks let loose. We had been boozing it up a little bit and seemed to have underestimated the resulting action. We all dove for cover in the three-foot-deep access trenches that we had cut in the snow. That wild display went on for several minutes… ordinance popping, cracking and whistling over our heads, into the snow, in the fire itself and straight up and down. Pretty funny stuff.
Safety First!
Location: Starved Rock State Park; Illinois
Elevation: Sandstone bluffs surrounded by farmland and the stinky Illinois River
Conditions: Late Autumn; ground soaked; cloudy
My buddy Ed grew up much further west of us here in suburbia; what is labeled rural actually. While we, as kids, were camping in Wisconsin and the mountainous states, he was venturing into his own back yard and across the tar-and-chip road for miscellaneous creek and rock activities in the forest. Fortunately for them, just the yards that he and his young friends lived in were big enough for a camp. He still lives out there… even further now, and now as a father. Our kids are of similar age… and we think that our kids belong outdoors. A couple of them now love the outdoors – like us.
As a kid, with parents and siblings, I may have visited Starved Rock (or “Stasvred Rcko” as my spell-check challenged brother Jape would permanently label it), but just for picnicking and hiking… or the now FORBIDDEN climbing on the sandstone formations that had been cut by the Illinois River eons ago. Ed was probably camping, hiking and climbing there for years before we knew each other. He was certainly using the formal lodge there with his family, at least annually, for a long time previous – before becoming a father, for sure. Years ago, my older brother Chris started this outing called “Dads & Kids…” and at first it was “Up North.” He too had some outdoorsy kids (although significantly older than ours), and they too camped. I think that after that event became such a huge success – the gatherings growing up to twenty participants – Ed created his own version: “Dads & Kids at Starved Rock”.
Everyone who had children was invited to Ed’s created event – but no moms of course – just friends, family and sometimes some oddball neighbors got in on the action. It was initially set in late October, but migrated here and there, with the latest being a shockingly cold November 11, if I recall correctly. The campground has evolved over the years… being relatively close to that shithole metropolis of Chicago (and its ignorant masses), the park management authorities were probably doing what was necessary by eventually banning alcohol (dang unruly urban partiers), prohibiting wood scavenging (idiot urbanite tree-cutters) and even disallowing imported firewood (city bugs n shit). Not many paid these rules any mind, but it gave The Man an avenue to remove, or dissuade the riffraff with a steep fine. We always brought clean wood (eventually hidden). The roads were black-topped (designer cars couldn’t be dirtied – oh no), campsites were electrified (the city weenies wanted their toys, huge RVs, and heat), and due to even more late-season activity, they added Port-a-Potties subsequent to shutting down the plumbed bathroom for winter (those city prisses never shat in the woods – no sir). What always remained though was the beautiful deciduous forest containing the dominant and stately oaks with their fallen leaves covering everything on the ground in a brown, red, and gold blanket.
Participants joined, declined, and sometimes just visited the regulars for a game or two. Group count was up to high teens over the years, here and there… grandchildren appeared. The kids naturally grew to treasure our beloved loud and hilarious activities of wild croquet, Washer-Toss, occasional cards, and Yahtzee. This event remained truly Dads-Only except for one regrettable occasion where moms were allowed. Afterwards the kids pleaded with us to never invite them back – done. It was awful with their nitpicking and ridiculous unending orders – especially the freakish prohibitions around the fire. You see, the dads rolled… no fucking unnecessary rules, just a simple few advisements: “Stay within earshot if you want to hear our yells for lunch, and don’t burn yourselves dicking around in the ever-present fire”. They hiked around, routinely got covered in muck, whittled weenie and marshmallow sticks and had FUN. I think a group of TWELVE was out and about one time, loosely guided by the eldest, or most experienced of the tribe… returning tired and hungry. The camping outing was really only a total of forty-eight hours… so we had tons of snacks, treats, cocoa, tasty sausages, wild meats, and a HUGE group meal for a while – usually a boatload of spaghetti with grill-cooked sausage and plenty of side dishes. They loved it. They grew up, as we grew to expert casual beer drinking, fun loving guys. The whole ordeal was looked forward to – maybe more so than even Halloween.
It was with this almost twenty-year history that Ed set, and we agreed to, yet another annual date. My kids were away at college, creating their own lives, other absentees with younger kids had family commitments, and a few had grown out of the desire for the activity – nothing really unusual, unprecedented, or new there. We had a modest group – no females this time – and just the four core dads. Brother Jape was there, sans daughter, and Rich too, without his two daughters. In maybe a first-ever occurrence, Ed was actually the only represented dad there, but in addition to his second son, he had also dragged along three other event-veteran teenaged cohorts: all fun loving decent kids, ready for action. Ed was always even keeled while laughing at, and along with our uproarious behavior. It seems that Jape and I had become, and were looked at as the veteran game players, story tellers, and all around enthusiastic carefree campfire masters.
Jape and I had arrived early on the Friday. We unloaded our gear and a surprising amount of wood. Since we honestly didn’t want to contribute to the real problem of ignorant human-caused deforestation within the park, we included a large quantity of the wood we had split for our home use… a lot of the less desirable species, some widow-makers, a few roundies, and a couple of all-nighters. Within close range of my house, new homes were still being built, frequently big-assed luxury monstrosities. The builders of those almost million-dollar McMansions didn’t give a shit about wasting a couple thousand on generously cut lumber – they routinely threw out tons of decent sized, quality ends. I had cruised the construction site dumpsters salvaging what became excellent kindling for my home fires. A pile of those multi-grade lumber planks was unloaded from the back of my truck too. We stacked all that stuff up neatly near the fire pit. We set up some tents, cracked a few concealed brews and got to the task of mounting the gaming lights up in a few of the surrounding trees. We never had a problem starting the fire as we had brought along old newspaper and the planks could be split down to toothpicks when necessary. The Djeep was ever-present… probably actually omnipotent. Blazed that mutha right up and kept her rolling while we finished up the lights. We raked and further groomed the croquet pitch to a fine uneven slick-coated hard-pack of glazed dirt.
Throughout the mild, but previously soaked early afternoon, Jape and I watched the other campers and RVers arrive… we waved to all. We liked to be visibly friendly and chatty, since we knew that we’d be very loud later, and it might gain us some slack. While we played Yahtzee at the cleaned, perfectly covered and set table, there were many passersby on foot as well. Everyone always took a look at everyone else’s camp – they obviously saw our large wood supply and ripping fire. The “Rangers” were AWOL, as usual. Ed rolled in with the boys at an unknown near-dusk hour – Jape and I were well into the Panda (Hamm’s beer), having been iced down in a bucket containing some next-door neighbor’s offered ice – the clock was neither observed nor relevant anymore. The local campground was filling up… nearly full. We helped them unload and basically get the now tons of miscellaneous crap organized. There was minor food prep for a mixed-bag dinner as me and Jape initiated the first round of croquet. Many passersby were obviously intrigued with our loud and boisterous antics. We always had to pay attention to those people because you never knew when The Man might drop in – and perhaps view our prohibited adult beverages. The fire grew after some meat snacks were done, and we were all laughing while catching up with life stories and witnessing the Masters play. This went on into early darkness, then we shut down the lights and moved to the fire.
I don’t remember what the boys were drinking, but the dads were winding down on the beer. There was still some snacking going on of course. Most were reclining in those collapsible camp chairs. I was standing at the back of the rolling fire, facing the road and Jape was actually laying on the ground near the fire, between it and the wood pile. I see some guy approaching on our drive… he’s maybe early twenties and dressed in a hodge-podge of city-cum-rural clothing. As he came close enough, the interplay went like this:
Dave, looking right into him: “What’s up my man?”
Dude, all hangdog and a bit slouched: “Uggghhh… I can’t get my fire going.”
Dave: “And what brings you to our camp?”
Dude, now more upbeat: “You guys look like you know what you’re doing.”
Everyone is now silent and listening, Jape just tilting his head up, Ed still calmly seated.
Dave: “Jape, take two planks, the hobby axe, and help this guy out.”
Without a word, Jape springs up, grabs the axe, and two Douglas fir two-by-twelves off the stack. He turns to walk out on the drive and the dude locks in with him.
While they are gone, I give the boys my take on the whole scenario two sites down.
“So you guys think this guy is some doophuss, right? Comes camping and can’t get his own fire going. In this place, you can use paper, gas, charcoal, cheater logs, whatever, right?”
They are all nodding in agreement.
“No way… wrong. Here’s what happened: a week ago, when it was a warm beautiful autumn day, this suave urban guy suggested to his hot girlfriend that they go camping for the weekend. ‘It will be sweet, Baby. A nice warm fire, maybe some marshmallows or s’mores if you want. We could have a few drinks, even some candles, then a cozy, cuddly tent.’ Yeah, she was smiling in the sun, as she agreed to the outing.”
They are all smiling now, at my added body language, and intonation.
“Now, here we are, and you guys are dinging him. Wrong action, and here’s why: that guy had the balls to bury his ego, throw away his machismo, enter OUR camp and admit defeat to other males. The correct reaction should have been: Gold Star for that guy… earnestly asking for assistance when he knowingly fucked up.”
They are all nodding vigorously in full agreement.
It was only a few minutes when Jape returned to the fire… he ditched the axe and sat down. We waited for the story… first he grabbed a Panda and gave me one too; Ed was dormant; if Rich was there, he was asleep in a chair. Jape began, and it was reported something like this:
“So, we walk over, and on the way, he gives the quick story about his girlfriend, etcetera. I check out the obviously shitty smoldering “fire” and shake my head exaggeratingly. The girlfriend is sitting at the table, pouting. I bend down to the fire pit, and he gets in there with me – showing the girlfriend that he’s helping out. ‘Dude, these fuckin’ roundies are soaked (he had violated and scavenged), it’s impossible to start that junk with a lighter, get this shit outta here.’ I used my glove and swept the barely glowing crap out of the way with more exaggerated body language. ‘Gimme some of that Kleenex’… maybe his girlfriend had been crying? I laid plenty of that stuff in there, chopped off the good glowing coals from the garbage roundies, threw them in there, and split the two-bys into super-small matchsticks and various other sizes. I flicked the Djeep, and it started right up. I split the rest of the two-bys into mid-grade size, laid most in nicely and we watched it flare up. The Dude was barely containing his joy, and the girlfriend perked up. As he walked out with me, I told him to go easy on the roundies… let them breathe, they’ll eventually go up. Yeah, he thanked me.”
Jape finished up while both chuckling and happily chattering further about his ace performance helping someone out. I finalized the discussion with the boys:
“Was I right or what? Is that not fantastic? Now, it gets even better… that guy gets rewarded by his girlfriend, in some way, as a true problem solver, and hero.”
Again, they were nodding in agreement. We all shushed and pondered that wonderful scene going on at theirs, and at our fire, for a few more minutes, then we added even more wood.
Location: San Juan National Forest; Colorado
Elevation: 7,900’
Conditions: Early Summer; mild; cold at night
My wife, children, and I were at Day 3 on one of our family vacations. As mountain vacations go early in June, the snow had barely cleared. The campground had very nice campsites with tables and an adjustable grill-topped metal fire rings. Best of all, there was a ton of easy picking wood up to mid-grade – AND – stacked and sawn, large diameter logs nearby. These probably remained (from the post-Winter ground crew clean-up) because it was so early in the vacation season (up high) and visitors had not yet burned the wood. We used some of the largest diameter logs as stools around the embedded corrugated galvanized fire ring and split the smaller roundies. No effort at all required to start up a fire with miscellaneous paper goods – and the Djeep.
As a great day wound down, we all ate dinner, prepared on the stove, and sat around the perfect fire. After roasting some toxic marshmallows, our young children were stowed away snuggly in the tent on the site’s periphery. Wifey and I continued our pleasant late evening chit-chat around the fire, with a little added clothing, some more logs in the fire, and a few adult beverages. I was drinking Bud in cans, and she some yellow wine – in a glass. The beer must have been in a standard twelve-pack box, because I remember no plastic binding rings on the cans. I pulled out a can, and it had no weight… obviously empty. Upon inspection, the can still had its pull-tab intact, and no visible damage. Khaadamned Anheuser-Busch Q.C. Fukkit – I threw it in the fire and grabbed another beer from the box. Shortly thereafter, bang; no, more like: BANG! Similar to a gunshot. Very loud, in the dark, silent, and almost empty campground. We jumped, but realized what had happened: the Bud can had exploded… oops. The fire still burned… just a few logs out of place, embers spread, and a few coals out on the gravel. The kids remained sleeping, dead from our hiking and playing in the nearby creek.
Safety First!
Location: High Uintas Wilderness Area; Utah
Elevation: 10,100’
Conditions: Summer; mild; cloudy
My brother Jape and I had ventured into the wilderness with our barely pre-teen daughters – they were required to at least carry their own clothing and sleeping gear in a backpack… and any personal food items (like cocoa). We had started out above nine thousand feet, after having driven for twenty, mostly sleepless hours. The trail was obvious and straightforward, but the temperature rose quite rapidly from the early chill at arrival and the incline had us sweating in no time at all – at least for him and me – hauling that Khaadamned package loaded with gear for four (rather than equally divided – among adults). The lunch was whatever pre-made shite we individually had chosen and hung on our packs. The lunch break on the trail was unremarkable and short – no fire. The girls, having never participated in this activity before (other than training in the flatlands), were almost spent shortly thereafter. We didn’t want to break them on the first outing, so even though we were a bit short of our planned stop, we called it a day.
From our camping trips in the flatlands, the girls already knew that tents go up first, then fire, then maybe food – or a cocktail! A water source was also critical, but most of our selected locations had lakes and streams all over the place. The girls were assigned firewood gathering. We were not even done with the tents when the weather started turning… a stiff breeze wound up, then some clouds appeared on the horizon coming over the mountain peaks. I turned to the inbound weather and stated loudly:
“Storm Prep… 13 minutes!”
Jape laughed, and the girls stared at me like I was retarded. I picked up the pace, we both got the tents up, even the tarp, and had a few minutes to get at least some decent mid-grade. At about 12 minutes 33 seconds, it started to drizzle. NOW the girls first looked at me, then Jape, and simply said: “How did he do that?” The fire went up with garbage from the lunch and Djeep assisting. We built a makeshift cover for the fire with some larger green roundies. It rained lightly, the fire was warm and steady. We boiled water for a tasty, freeze-dried dinner, and the girls had their first backpacking experience. Gold star for the Dads.
Location: Bridger and Popo Agie Wildernesses; Wyoming
Elevation: 10,400’
Conditions: Summer; mild; wet
This trip with brother Jape and Klay was just a huge mess of rain – some snow – at the critical fire, and even worse on the way out. I still reflect, way back and say “ugh.” The trailhead and first day and night on the trail were so hot that we slept outside of our bags. Gratefully, there were no bugs, at least not initially. The first morning on the trail, it started drizzling, the bugs joined us, and the precipitation almost never subsided thereafter – complete bullshit. We hiked hard, up, and down steep and sometimes snowy trails, and successfully fished, but were pretty wet almost all of the time. That marketing myth of “water-proof” reared its ugly head once again. After days of relentless rain, having already used up a substantial amount of the stove’s needed white gas for nearly every time starting the fire, we yet again sat under the tarp.
Dave: “Klay… what will you do when we run out of fuel and the fire simply cannot be started in the soaking rain?”
That’s a serious concern – 90% of our food requires boiled water; we were way low on the gas and there was currently a lake forming around our surprisingly still burning fire out in the steady rain.
Klay: “Uhh, don’t let the fire go out?”
Dave “Fukkin-A RIGHT! OR head out NOW, chewing on cold trail mix.”
I instructed Klay to gather more wood…Jape and I ventured out as well. We threw most of the mass immediately onto the fire… it wasn’t enough. We three went out with the saw for even more… rotten-crotch, widow-makers, sappy bitch tree-tops, dead… whatever – all of it. There was just not enough decent burnable material… far too wet. We piled it up to protect the actually growing flames in the oven.
Dave: “Klay… throw those fucking useless benches on the fire – UP TOP!”
Klay: “Really?”
Dave: “They’re junk, we’re wet, we can’t dry anything out with a smoldering bitch, and I am concerned.”
Klay, eyes large eyes with excitement: “OK.”
The serious discussion at that eventually humongous fire eased the tension quite a bit. Every subsequent one on the trip was purposely big but still smoky. Djeep didn’t make a bit of difference… a single match can start the Instant-BTU. We didn’t run out of the liquid fuel, but it was close. The weather seldom cleared, but we were able to heat our food. I think that one day we had an hour of sun… that’s it. We had already decidedly cut the trip short by a day when we headed out. Just – Fucking – Miserable. We had changed the itinerary again, daydreaming for a layover with fire… forget about it… POURING rain, sleet, and at least 30mph constant wind scrubbed our faces, filled our already wet boots (especially Klay’s Desert Eagles), and the maybe 40°F prevented all but a quick trail mix rest under a couple of huge Douglas firs. I cursed the trail gods. We got through the thirteen miles of exhausting fireless wetness, and in a flash, with only about a half-mile to go, the sun blazed up, and the bugs chewed the living shit out of us – indifferent to our lubed up and toxically glossy skin. Wonderful – for the record books only.
Shite!
Location: Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness; Wyoming
Elevation: 8,800’
Conditions: Autumn; crazy weather
A trio of the usual guys and I were heading to a specific initial spot that had been absolutely flawless a few years back – although we had visited in a very buggy July then – a significant difference up in the mountains. The trailhead was very much bullshitty (for dispersed camping), so we had opted for a nearby federal campground. The pre-hike riverside campsite was very nice, but quite hot. We burned up all our road garbage, had some nice grilled steaks, a few beers and prepared for the morning’s departure. This is neither the time nor place to discuss me and Ed’s arduous task of locating said trailhead and hence rewarding ourselves with a quick cocktail in the nearby tourist town of Cooke City.
The planned first-day hike was only about five miles, and a relatively easy uphill grade. Because of that, there was no hurry in the morning, packing up all the camp shit, eating, and properly loading our big backpacks. We drove over to the barely passable, rutted and rock-filled approach road and parked out of sight, well back in the woods. The weather was decent… we all had on shorts for the heating hike, and Polartec up top. I was initially wearing my usual leather gloves – my fingers are shite in any chill. It warmed up quickly, and we traversed a high damp meadow holding some rancher’s cattle of all things – open range. The hike proved to be a bit longer than expected – no shock there – but we made it to the designated spot before lunch. It was still a beautiful location – as we remembered, and really warm. We set camp wearing just shorts and t-shirts. Being September, the water flow of the very large lake discharge was substantially lower than what we had witnessed and successfully fished the previous visit. The fire went up easily, the drinks went down, and all was good. We did have to search fairly wide for fire material… the area was obviously well worn. We fished, wading in, ate lunch, reviewed the itinerary for the next day and the rest of the trip. Gary and Ed bunking together, reported that near their tent site was a large supply of sawn logs, roundies yes, but bark free, quite dry, and about eighteen inches in length with a great twelve-inch diameter. This was really nice wood; some outfitters or hunters had set this stuff up for a future expedition of some sort. After dinner the weather cooled noticeably, we added clothes for a while and eventually headed off to bed.
My midnight piss was a surprise. I couldn’t see anything out the tent door – NOTHING – complete blackness. I stepped out barefoot into the now snow-covered ground and carefully moved with hands searching up in front, to a spot at least away from our tent walls to complete the task. Back in the tent, Ron was ear-plugged and dead to the world, I rarely sleep. I paid attention to the outdoor weather sounds more intently but gained nothing. Later, I awoke, dressed and exited the tent into about an inch – maybe two – of fresh wet snow. There were no remaining coals from the previous fire – we had not prepared for what was the unexpected snow fall. The fire pit was covered heavy in whiteness. The temperature was not too bad, maybe 30°F. I swept out the snow and selected some light-duty, toilet paper and then mid-grade from our supply. I didn’t want to dick around in the damp and freezing conditions, so I went to my buddy in the red aluminum MSR bottles. A liberal dose of the white gas was applied and then the Djeep ignited wand-of-power set off the WHOOOMF! We had stocked some decent mid-grade, but we clearly were going to need more and larger supplies. Eventually, the other guys rolled into the fire area – fucking Zone 6 jackasses (late sleepers). The fire was now rolling nicely from my additional log work. We had some things to discuss… as it was still snowing.
I reminded the guys that the plan was to break camp, immediately cross the still substantial waterway and head several miles further and higher into the snowy mountain wilderness. The main problem is not a little snow on the trail or a chill on your legs, but: what if we go out there and it gets bad… really deep with snow? We had proper clothing, but not enough fuel to cook on the stove for five more days if the firewood were to be buried and wet. Additionally, the unpredictable and now invisible rocky trails would be treacherous and hiking much more labor intensive than usual – especially if they iced-over. It was a somewhat dismal discussion. We really hashed out the details of every conceivable scenario… and added a ton of wood to the fire. Finally, we all agreed to stay at least one more night and check the weather all along the way. The snow was deepening rapidly, and it really seemed like we’d be turning to exit in the morning. By mid-morning – to me anyway – Gary fired up a round of cocktails… why not, it seemed, since we’ll just be bullshitting around the fire and be leaving the next day… not busting our balls heading up the steep trail with the big bitch packs strapped on. Later, after the trip, Gary would question me and Ed severely with: “I don’t understand why we started drinking so LATE!” I’m thinking: Fucking nut case… we had started at about 830am.
I instructed Gary and Ed to go back to their tent area and borrow as much of the cut logs that they could or were willing, to carry. I checked out the voluminous stack of wood for myself at the flora-stripped outfitter camp: “Thanks guys,” to no one in particular. Actually, in our experience, the horse-packers are some of the heaviest abusers of the trails and camps… garbage discarded, trees cut at will, literal shit and wipes not buried, and DESTROYED understory – down to mud. At least these logs were from clearly dead trees. I feel fully justified in saying that they just paid their dues – in part – indifferent slobs. While the Big Boys were hauling tonnage, I started in on the long, dead, and leaning trees here and there – with the Sven. I think Ron was working the bar. We’d bring back a load to the fire area, comment about the snow depth, again, and park by the roaring fire for a quick warm-up and a snoot full of eighty watt Black Haus schnapps. Finished that fifth off in no time! Given the wet snow, the pit stops included baking our shells – front and back. You do not want that hi-tech mystery microfiber weave staying soaked because the “water-proof” will fail. Our gloves were set carefully near the flames on the long roundies… wet leather takes a long time to properly dry out.
Ron, with his now burning glove in his hand: “WHAT THE FUCK MAN?”
Gary, surprised that he was being yelled at: “Huh?”
Ron: “I step away for TWO FUCKING MINUTES and you let my goddamned gloves blaze up!”
Gary, completely innocent: “What am I, your babysitter?”
Ron: “Sound; Fucking; Asleep!”
I’m thinking: Fucking GOLD!
We also fit in a little fishing, in the snow, but it was worth donkey-dick – great pictures though. During lunch, we decided to ditch the trip and head out the next morning… at that point, the snow was at maybe six or eight inches and still coming down. Drinks continued to flow, and we mentally prepared for a deep snow exit – the first ever – something Ed had fantasized about. Much excellent food was consumed, since we didn’t need it for more days out, and we had lively discussions around the fire while the usually stashed sausage and SPAM were grilled up. I took the time to build a snowman – another first. Taking a dump out in the snow was an adventure, but you had the added bonus of being able to clean up thoroughly with a handful of the white all-natural washcloth. Frozen ditch, but cleaner than a whistle. The day wound down and I think we hit the tents after dark at eight or nine, with about ten or twelve inches of still wet snow on the ground.
The wind picked up during the night, and the temperature had dropped markedly. The formerly wet snow had turned to ice or sleet, and I had to backhand the ceiling of the 3-season tent every hour or so to remove the growing load on top. Ron sawed sleepy logs… fucker. Due to all the drinking, I had to pee about five times throughout the night… good thing I had cleared the patio in front, next to that laughing fat-fuck Frosty, but I still froze my ass off. I was staring at my eyelids most of the night, and saw no hope of any deep sleep, so I got dressed and headed out in the darkness at 430am or thereabouts. A couple more inches of snow had fallen – and some ice as a bonus. I had prepped the night before, laying three or four long all-nighters on the fire as a cover, but the wood was so good, that most of it had burned through… some key items remained – with glowing coals – FUCK YEAH! The thermometer said 24°F, while my hands said FUCKING FREEZING! I protected the coals, cleared the snow, and carefully broke up the almost burned and ready log ends. I added some light-duty and laid into the mid-grade… I wasn’t fucking around at all: I piled on the big beautiful dry roundies and added a bunch of cross-hatched eight-foot-long logs. There was a lot of wood on there when I went to find my buddy in the MSR bottles. I dumped that Instant-BTU everywhere – we didn’t need it any more. I actually tossed the wand-of-power from about ten feet away because of the volume of gas I had deposited everywhere. At ignition, even I was surprised at the huge WHOOOMF and accompanying fireball. With the top-quality and plentiful wood, she remained burning for the duration of our stay. I think later, when the hibernating fuckheads finally appeared, I was nicely warm and had finished my first round of breakfast… someone mentioned having heard me light her up. We had to clear a lot of snow from the tarp and from our frozen backpacks… the swirling wind had blown icy shards into drifts under the tarp. We measured, or later heard that there was fourteen inches… yep, I think at least that much. The weather Gypsies had even forecast an additional foot for the next day or two. Breakfast at the large hot fire was straightforward and after describing our differing nights, we turned mostly silent while preparing for the winter exit. We stuck our hands in the fire one final time, then kicked in the logs and piled a large mound of snow on top… not really a concern. Surprisingly, we moved fairly easily on an almost-followed trail with Ed plow-horsing up front. We took some snaps of the beautiful snow and ice formations as we eased down the steep and sometimes slippery path. It warmed up above freezing remarkably soon, and the trees started to give up their loads – mostly on Gary’s head and down his unprotected neck; probably a penalty from the trail gods for earlier jettisoning his gallons of Tanqueray. We found the cows again… way out there, and we smooshed deeply into their hidden pies beneath the sloppy snow and topping the muck – a real treat – deeper than our boots. No significant breaks and no fires. Back at the vehicle we had to seriously unbury it and manually guide Gary down the shitty path of a road which was deep with snow and covering the hazardous rocks. Even with the FWD, that big bitch was slipping all over the place – not good with three feet of drop on the creek side. We made it out and hit the road to home in the mid-30s crisp weather. No stops and no cops – just the story to tell.
Location: Fitzpatrick Wilderness; Wyoming
Elevation: 9,600’
Conditions: Autumn; pouring soaking rain; chilly; windy; light snow
Ugh, Ron and I had been hiking for what seemed like forever in cold and continuous rain… not drizzle, nope… these were showers dumping on us for miles. We had previously, and unusually, waited out, what we thought at the time anyway, an entire early morning of pouring rain at our trailhead USFS allowed dispersed campsite. It had rained from pre-dawn until 9:00am or so that day. If we had actually cooked on a fire, it was very early on. The locals had told us that it had rained for SEVEN DAYS STRAIGHT previous to our arrival – extremely unusual for the arid region. We even left our soaking auxiliary tent set up at its not-so-discrete location behind a large mound and around a few nearly dead trees, rather than getting even wetter taking it down. We were stewing, apprehensive, and we hadn’t even started out yet. I think that I said simply: “Fuck it; if someone really wants to take that hundred-year-old, worn-out bitch, then they’re welcome to it.” We closed up our constructed rain shelter around the CR-V hatchback, within the lake of the trailhead parking lot, hit the trail and headed steeply up. The rain started again about 13 seconds after we had launched. We did have to continue or quit outright, because there is only a certain amount of daylight hours available for the hike… especially since we were not going to hike at night on an unfamiliar trail that actually culminated with an off-trail section.
We slogged through unending greasy deep mud on the steep trail, frequently doing a step-and-slide… brutal with our full packs on. We used trees where they were present to rest underneath and chomp on some cold trail-mix. The rain did not stop. We finally plateaued, somewhere above ten-thousand feet, but were now in completely unsheltered rocky rivers as a trail. There was no way we would attempt a fire in this soup, lunch was blown off, so we choked down additional cold trail-mix. We probably didn’t drink enough water, as anything but head down posture got us even wetter – we pushed on. We had decent rain gear, actually very good rain gear, but most of the claims to “water-proof” are bullshit.When that atomic fabric is pelted with an unending shower for hours, the pores designed to make it “breathable” give up to water seepage. We were fucking soaked.
We made a pronounced turn on the high trail, and I knew that we would be heading to the lake… the very big lake, although we couldn’t see a Khaadamned thing in the rain and now dense fog. What I didn’t anticipate was the length and steepness of the descent towards the water… we had to practically go side-stepping on the marbles and sludge flowing like a river. It seemed to take forever, and we were both freezing – Ron’s teeth chattering. We made the lake, practically got lost in the beat-down weekender camping area and realized that we would have to stop – soon. We set out along the lake off-trail for a final push towards what was supposedly a decent campsite, hiking on slippery rocks, and logs, with waves kicking up in spots. This immense lake never seemed to give any indication of how far along we were. Its two and a half mile length and over two hundred foot depth acted like a white-capped Irish sea next to us.
We were done; we were short of our goal; we were freezing; we were hungry; and we were now more than fucking soaked. We just simply stopped, in the rocks, and turned left, up the steep boulder-filled embankment searching for any spot at all that would fit the tent. It took a surprising amount of time, but we found something that we could shoe-horn the tent into. We dropped our packs that were soaked through their “water-proof” covers and got to work on the tarp. Ron unpacked the tent while under the tarp, and I located some light-duty wood amongst the boulders. It seemed that the rain lessened just a bit and thinking that the warmth was absolutely essential to counter our impending hyperthermia, I literally gassed up the shitty firewood. No WHOOOMF, more like a reserved hoomph… surely you know these terms. It was burning slightly, and Ron had all the tent components ready, so I ditched the fire temporarily and we set up the tent hurriedly because the rain had started again. I quickly covered the start-up fire with green roundies but it was a smoldering mess. We finished the tent off with it being wetted down nicely before we could get the rain-fly on and secured – the wind was now really ripping to help us out – WHAT THE FUCK??!! The Khaadamned tarp was flapping like a ghost in a hurricane – practically useless. Ron staked down the tent fly as good as possible in the bullshit terrain, while I used more fuel on the fire… right on the few hot coals and very minor flames. It went up, but was short-lived, every fucking thing was wet, dripping, and I was now just wasting fuel – on Day 1. Fire attempt cancelled. We redirected our attention to unpacking our sleeping bags, pads and clothing – while under the ineffective manta ray flapping tarp. A lot of stuff was obviously already wet. When we had all the gear into the tent (allowing more water in), Ron discovered that a lot of his clothing was wet – and that stuff had been amidships in his pack – deep rain penetration. That was an incredible volume of rain that we had hiked through. We set up our pads and sleeping bags, prepared some dry clothes, stripped, and got into our bags to warm up – I think that it was only about 700pm. We said about two words each, because we had obviously experienced the same onslaught of water, and promptly fell asleep. This is a story of fire failure, but we did get out of the cautionary mess to tell the tale. Of course, the heat of a fire would have been fantastic, but it proved to be unnecessary. The next morning the rain had stopped, and we fired up the stove for some hot drinks and oatmeal. We hung all our soaked gear up in the still-present wind and then reconnaissance hiked only ten fucking minutes when we located the target campsite… flat, soft ground, and shelter under trees. A large fire ring of rocks was present, but just a few logs – mostly rotten-crotch and some widow-makers it looked like. We headed back to pack up our almost dry flapping gear.
We returned to the campsite with all our gear loosely packed, hanging on our shoulders, and off-loaded. No problem setting up the tent and tarp; well-sheltered and firmly secured against the windward protected wall of trees and shrubs. We carried on with the usual activities but wanted to keep the fire up high. It at least drizzled every day, and it snowed too. The usual cocktails ramped up and some effective Mary Jane blazed, but we were unsuccessful in our searches for good large logs. It looked like we might actually run out of sufficient wood.
Ron: “Let me cut that down.”
Dave: “Why, it’s still appears to have a little life left?”
Ron: “I’ve always wanted to cut down a tree for the fire.”
I’m thinking: what the fuck? I presumed that he meant for survival. Its roots were exposed, had about ten needles on one branch, and was precariously balanced and practically falling out of its home in between boulders.
Dave: “Fuck it; get to work.”
We cut up, then burned that entire sappy bitch up in about an hour. It did get significantly colder, we had gloves on all day long – only removing them when we got our oil pressure up on the steep off-trail day-hikes or sitting to cook right in the fire. It even snowed lightly for a couple of hours. We resorted to breaking up and sawing all the not-quite rotten-crotch and many of the irregular drift-wood-like half-assed benches that had been strewn about the fire area. A couple nearly frozen dumbasses were camping in the small viable area over the hump nearby actually visited us for warmth at our great fire and some chit-chat. The nice looking outdoorsy young lady was grossly mismatched to the hill-rod macho guide-wanna-be strutting dipshit that had forgotten his sleeping bag, rain gear and fucking boots. His ridiculous blather was cringe worthy. She was, beside her friendly demeanor, strangely dressed, in a skirt, and the highly uneven terrain and contour of her approach clearly revealed no underwear. Not something you see every day out there. Ron and I had cocktails and openly offered a few to them, but they declined. The rest of the trip turned out okay, as we had learned a little something about adverse weather, AND we then finished it off with a few warm, beer-polluted days back at the trailhead camp. That Khaadamned indestructible tent was there waiting for us – taught like a drum – fuck yeah!
Location: High Uintas Wilderness Area; Utah
Elevation: 10,300’
Conditions: Summer; clear; hot during the day; freezing at night (27°F)
Jape and I had busted our balls searching off-trail under the high sun for what was an undiscernible USFS route and then necessarily going bushwhacking for miles in the general direction of our target. We were hot, aggravated and spent when we decided to stop short and camp after eight long hours. We dumped our loads and set camp in the shade at a beautiful site along a loud rippling freezing stream against a backdrop of an immense rock pile – one that we would later ascend. On a whim, we decided on a few cocktails. As he is known to do, Jape first revealed a special secret stash of powerful liqueur, and also not unheard of, his fucking two-cent container had dispensed a third of the precious liquid into the surrounding zip-lock baggie. Not a problem though… we squeezed every milliliter of Rumpleminz out of that junk into our mouths. We had a nice fire blazing quickly from the very dry materials available everywhere. We stocked up enough light-duty and mid-grade for the quick-exit fire in the morning.
At my midnight piss, it became obvious that we were in for a cold morning… there was a crystal-clear star-filled sky and I could already see my breath in clouds. We awoke early as planned and had to suit up… it was literally freezing. Full Polartec and shells. We both also donned leather gloves, mine insulated, for the fire and wood work – it’s really rough if you perform that action bare-handed below 30°F. We didn’t want to fuck around being so cold, so we needed optimal fuel:
Jape: “Dry bones?”
Dave: “Fuck yeah. Let’s get this bitch rolling!”
That fire was perfect, easy with Djeep plus bones, and genuinely necessary. We were cold and after packing up our gear, we weren’t going to hit any trail to warm up, we were heading off-trail… starting with fording the ice-cold stream in shorts and camp shoes. We went overboard with the dry mid-grade knowing that we could douse even a huge fire with the plentiful water just twenty feet away. Good thing that we thoroughly heated up… that fucking stream was like wading in a Slurpee. The memory is fixed with me because of the unique circumstances… unforgettable.
Location: Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Preserve; Alaska
Elevation: 3,600’
Conditions: Summer; very warm; always light
Wow, a whole bunch of us had ventured into the Big State via car, train, commercial airplane, chartered bus, and finally dropped off by a float plane – all in one day! When we were all finally present at what would be the fire area, after having unloaded our truly massive packs and set up the four tents for the eight of us, my brother Chris, with visions of the future simply stated:
“Let me get a snap before wed burn this place to hell.”
He was probably reflecting on the history he had witnessed, where we tend to have a fire wherever and whenever we please, using whatever materials are handy; size being set simply by whomever is tending at the time. That equates to always.
There was plenty of firewood in the area, and, as usual, we gathered wood – just after Chris’ requested picture taking. The fires at the location were never really big, just ever-present. This may have been due, in part, to the nearly constant daylight of such a northern latitude in summer. That crazy long day had our internal clocks all fucked up and someone was always up cooking, or just diddling in the fire. There was one lengthy period of rain, more than a day continuous, where we actually built up the fire. Since we were completely removed from cities, towns or even Granny’s General Store, we were reluctant to use our stove fuel if the fire were to go out and the wood was wet. We loaded up the fire with nine inch diameter roundies that we had cut from the gathered down-and-dead trees. It was fine. Later, after analyzing a tree segment that my brother Jape had brought all the way home, we found that even those small things were over 200 years old. The trees were lifeless and on the ground… it’s not like we cut down g a bunch of green growing sappy bitches, so calm down.
The real fire action didn’t occur until days later. Some of us had gone on a lengthy hike and were out for hours… miles away. Upon return, we had all gotten very wet, soaked actually, while fording a roiling, ripping and demonstrably powerful white-water stream. The water was near freezing as it was sourced at a nearby glacier. When we had calmed down and the water was draining from our jackets, clothes and boots, we began trying to predict what the other guys were doing back at our camp along the main river. Whatever we came up with didn’t match what we saw easily from a mile away – even in the blazing sunlight: an obviously large fire. When we returned to the camp, we witnessed what was probably the largest fire that our backpacking history has recorded. The guys that had remained in the camp had built a bar; that’s right, had stocked its makeshift shelves with our collective gallons of booze and had stacked huge quantities of loose brush (ends still visible), plus what must have been tons of driftwood into a beautifully landscaped fire ring. The huge river deposited these flowing logs annually and then moved them around daily as the water level rose and fell with the varying melting of the glaciers during the long sunny days and barely cool nights. The flames were easily cranking up to eight feet. The guys were all well in the bag, which likely contributed to their enthusiastic descriptions of what had transpired to arrive at the current forest-fire level display. We had our own stories to tell about the long hike, so we settled in and joined them for a few cocktails. There really was very little danger though, the entire camp was well removed from any soil-based land and the associated flora… it was out on the immense river’s wash zone – all stones, with trickles, rivulets and residual water everywhere. I don’t think we could have cooked anywhere near that thing. Actually, I don’t remember ever cooking there, but I’m sure we did.
Location: Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness; Montana
Elevation: 9,700’
Conditions: Summer; wet; hot; bug hatchery
A group of us had hiked and sweated and gotten chewed on mercilessly for two days. The rain had started early in the morning of the second day. We had to pack up wet and were already laying into the bug juice. It was so wet that if we did have a fire, it was minimal just for hot drinks… maybe oatmeal. Anticipating rain, I believe that we may have stowed some light-duty wood under the tarp. We had forded a wide and shallow stream, in the rain, re-booted, and then ten fucking feet later had to ford another of its branches – vision isn’t all that good when your hood is half-way down your face and your head is bent over to keep the rain off. We meandered up and into the wilderness. The trail was so greasy that we had to use our hands in sections. The mud on our hands was a wonderful supplement when smearing the seemingly ineffective bug jizz repeatedly on our faces. Hours of that horseshit. It was still drizzling when we stopped for lunch. Thinking back, I don’t know why we picked a spot with few trees… maybe because it was near a lake shore, and we were too aggravated to venture out and search for a better spot. The attempted fire was just pathetic… damp light-duty, soaked mid-grade and zippo for paper goods. We didn’t really want to break out the fuel for direct assistance with the fire starting because we had five days to go and five guys that may need the fuel for its intended use. We dicked around with that smoldering pile of shit for about ten minutes, before we collectively said, “fuck this”, and got out the stove. So, no real fire as we sat in the drizzle, eating our freeze-dried gold. We put away all the crap and headed out and up… in the rain, with the bugs.
The conditions were even more miserable at a junction when, still raining, we had an hour reconnaissance delay. No dice on our planned off-trail route, it dropped over a significantly steep boulder field. “Pack ‘er up; let’s roll.” Grumbling from everyone (at the blown route). Complete bullshit hiking, same rain, more mud, and even more bugs. Fortunately, I suppose, the alternate route brought us to a suitable camp spot near a lake in just under an hour. We agreed on the location and had to get the tarp out first. I think some worked the tarp while others gathered wood. We didn’t even bother with the tents yet because of the rain. Man O man, as soon as we had that tarp blocking the rain, the bugs joined us underneath – in FORCE – thousands of them chewing the living shit out of us. It was at this point that I believe we all agreed that cocktails would probably help stabilize the situation. Still no fire. I think that there was a lull in the rain, and we all ran to get the two tents up without having them fill up with water… the bugs pitched in to help as well. Success there, a few more drinks and we were ready to get the Khaadamned fire going – wet or not. The drinks did take the edge off the miserable conditions. We used some white gas despite the earliness of the trip. Yep: WHOOOMF!
Even with the liquid fuel kicker, the wood was wet and very reluctant to help us out – I secretly cursed the fire gods. We scattered far and wide locating dry light-duty from under the spruce of the area. The core of the fire was still simmering when it started to rain again – the bugs didn’t give a shit. We constructed a fine multi-layer cover over the fire with whatever crappy wet wood we had… no larger than mid-grade. It did start to burn decently, and the cocktails continued to go down the hatch without issue. At this point I really had had enough of the relentless bugs, and I’m positive the other guys felt the same, but Gary had achieved total control and in conjunction with the ignoro tuned drinks, he simply schmeared the hundreds of them off his legs occasionally – a fine demonstration in disciplined behavior. I thought, quite reasonably, that our only alternative was to build the fire bigger and better… smoke those mutherfukkers the hell outta there. Anyway, it went like this:
Dave: “Gary, get some more wood.”
While the other guys jumped up and renewed their expansive search for decent wood, I re-worked the guts of the fire to get it really cooking under its green roof. Gary returned about five minutes later bull-moosing the upper twenty feet of a green Engelmann Spruce – complete with all its boughs. We used the best of the recently acquired material as inner fuel, cut Gary’s tree into four large sections, left the green and needle covered branches intact, smashed the now somewhat dried and heated roof into the fire and stacked all the green shit right on top… a huge five-foot mound. That monstrosity became a humongous white-smoking chimney… much like and old 4-8-8-4 locomotive. The very slight breeze brought the wafting dense fog of conifer-based bug repellent right under the tarp for us. If you could breathe, you’d be free of the bugs for a minute or two. It was still raining, so we kept adding onto that fire with as much material as we could retrieve without venturing into the next county. It was only successful as anti-bug if you stayed very close, but of course then you’d be in the never-ending rain. Just not very pleasant… without the cocktails, we would obviously have been rudderless. The fire worked, but we must have burned a full cord of wood in one evening.
Leave no Trace!
Location: Popo Agie Wilderness; Wyoming
Elevation: 10,100’
Conditions: Autumn; mild
Before we had initiated our general camp-at-trailhead policy, we used to get out of the vehicle after twenty or so hours of driving, load up our sixty pounds of gear into our big assed packs and hit the trail – at altitude – no acclimation. Once or twice, the crew members drank a few too many road brews and that made things very much worse for them at launch. It was a major pleasantry if we did not have to lube up with bug juice or even spray. One trip, it was thoroughly discussed and known that we’d only be possibly hiking three and a half miles to first camp and up only several hundred feet as well – very manageable. Somehow, we were delayed a bit in the local town and consequently, we didn’t get hiking until it was warm – too warm. I think we sprayed up mildly for a nice sheen.
As we cooked on the trail, me and my buddy Ricker, with his hourglass shaped and Frankenstein sized pack, pulled further and further away from the Executives bringing up the rear. We would hold up and they would catch up, over and over. I think that this became one of those cases of simply too slow and hence too long (in misery) on the trail. We don’t generally discuss such things while some are hurting, and others are pissed off – for WHATEVER the reason on either side. Anyway, we did make the minimum destination, but later than expected, and more exhausted than anticipated. However, the site was beautiful, with a fishable lake and large boulders distributed amongst big trees and soft needle ground cover. The request to continue on to the optimal destination was thoroughly thrashed and voted down. No big deal… I am always happy when my elaborate plans get laid to waste within the first six hours of a week-long trip.
After actually resting, we set full camp in short order. The fire was started easily, with Bic assisting, I think, and cooking nicely in just a few minutes. Sometimes I bring along the old sub-standard lighters on easy hikes, just to use them up. Cocktails were fired up next and we reclined in the perfect spot. The early evening weather was fantastic and Ricker was obviously excited, childlike even, as he unloaded some huge mass from his beautifully organized land-fill pack. What the fuck ever the Khaadamned thing was, he had it wrapped in what seemed like several layers of miscellaneous used shit – aluminum foil, newspaper, kraft paper, butcher wrap, toilet paper, zip-locks… just tons of crap – name it, it was there. All to protect his gold: eight large hand-made tamales that had been provided by a kindly Mexican national at his workplace. No, that’s not all… he also had the complete makings for Bloody Mary’s – spices, olives, and pickles too, if I remember correctly. Sheee-it, he off-loaded about ten pounds of pack weight at one stop – I believe that it stands as the record. That meal was damned good – one of the best.
We stoked the fire with the plentiful wood of all grades as we settled into the glow of the drinks and the cooling evening. We threw on some extra clothing and mixed up a couple more kicker beverages. I’m positive that we all felt great, as we have discussed this event many, many times since. Anyway, there was a big bitch widow-maker near the fire in our camp, just talking to me to do something. The resulting interplay went like this:
Dave: “Gary, put that log on the fire.”
It’s about 32” diameter, 48” long, and maybe 150#. It’s BIG. The other guys are momentarily, and unusually silent.
Gary: “Uh, really… that’s a little big?”
Dave: “Boo hoo… you want your mommy to help?”
Gary nicely squats, grabs and cleans the mass onto his shoulder and looks at me questioningly.
Dave: “Roll it 180 degrees as you place it right on the top of the fire.”
The perfectly executed move results in a huge burst and continued six-foot flare up from the settled sappy-bottomed bitch – YES!
All: These pictures will be GREAT! They weren’t.
That log and fire burned without adjustment for hours – the big bitch cooked down to a nice all-nighter. Quite memorable – capping a perfect night in the big hills.
Location: Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness; Montana
Elevation: 9,200’
Conditions: Autumn; mild; initially wet
The not uncommon up and down trail had us again angrily questioning the trail creators: “Who the fuck chose this bullshit route! We could have gone right around that fucking hump!” Animals, that’s who, they wanted to take a look up top – no doubt. Many trails originate in the most direct route to water or food for the local animals – game trails. Humans, usually the USFS boys, sometimes assisted by slave-waged volunteer trail monkeys, work the terrain as best they can, given their paltry budget. Fisherman and hunters blaze the way to the best killing sites for those animals and many of those trails are NOT maintained.
We had shells on for the light drizzle. We ate trail lunch and then skipped across the first two stream crossings with boots on and had no incidents. As off-trail hiking goes, this was decent, but then we came to a three-way fork leading to a maze of unmarked paths through the dense forest. Quick reconnaissance gave us little help. It’s frustrating when Day-1 spirals into uncertainty – with a full fucking pack on your back. No one likes to retrace with that load while hiking hard and high. We agreed to the route that headed on-contour, in our planned direction, above the guiding creek and the only crude trail without what looked like don’t-go logs laid on the ground – they are iffy indicators at best. The drizzle picked up.
We had selected the right route, or at least one that got us to the desired, envisioned, and planned river crossing and small meadow. It started really raining and the river, that we had to now ford to get to the target destination, was large enough to warrant camp shoes. The changeover would require at least five full minutes (more like ten) of un-shoe and re-shoe while getting dumped on. I let Rich and Ron know that my estimate was for at most a half-mile further to the potential campsite, so if we got wet, whether with boots on, or not, we wouldn’t have far to go until we could set up the tarp. I didn’t feel like dicking around, so I eyeballed the best immediate route and just high-stepped right through the relatively shallow water. I think they both changed over as I waited under a large tree on the opposite side. It was a toss-up for best result: I had some wetness on my thick sock uppers and boots, and they were a little wetter waste-down from sitting in the rain as they swapped footwear. It only took about ten minutes to reach a suitable site at the planned lake.
At least the rain let up somewhat, as we eventually got the tent up – for some reason, I now do not recall using a tarp on that trip. Hmmmm – maybe a result of packing light or maybe my memory is filled with negativity because of Ron’s fucking hyper-stretched retaining bungees within the tent poles now tangled in a spider’s web, instead of ready-to-roll (REI over-priced dogshit). The rain stopped and we got the fire going without issue. There was plenty of would around, including abundant downed tree-length roundies. Things were looking up. We discussed our individual booze selections and flavor enhancements then mixed up a batch.
| In all the outdoor adventures that I have written about, I don’t think that I have ever described what we drink while on the trail. We are not young anymore, pack weight is an issue… you must set your priorities. I always carry a 1-liter Platypus bag of top-shelf vodka… Kettle One is my brand. The other guys have they’re preferred stuff and volume. Gary once brought TWO 96oz Nalgene bags full of Tanqueray… yeah, he likes his booze. Jape brings the very cheapest garbage booze around. All select clear most of the time, and 80 proof or higher. We usually chill the booze in a creek almost always near or camp. Just like we each bring our own secret food item, like a small sausage, we also sometimes bring in surprise booze. I mentioned the Black Haus above, Rupmlemintz is also a common add-on. Ron once brought some million-dollar cognac – not worth the weight, in my opinion… tasted like rubbing alcohol. Up until recently, we brought various flavors of Crystal Light. I have switched to Ultima Replenisher to avoid the aspartame. I really thought that the ruby red grapefruit was a fantastic flavor – discontinued, but dropped by me anyway. Powder into cold filtered mountain water per directions. The intention is not to get drunk, but to achieve a nice glow – that does vary by person – body somewhat lesser bodyweight plays a part. To accomplish that, many factors are involved, not simply pour in the booze. Nope, altitude, attitude, and sometimes supply – you never want to run out. Gary pours stiff – all the time, jet-fuel – he carries sufficient volume and he’s a professional drinker. We rarely let him touch our booze. The rest of us measure using the graduated hard polyester Nalgene 1-liter big mouth bottles. After all these years, we have settled on 170ml booze into 830ml of colored and flavored liquid. It only takes a liter of that to get rolling. Lemonade is a great mix.  |
It did appear that the rain would return, and we like a good wood supply anyway, so I started breaking up dozens of the long-assed dead roundies into manageable logs. I was a bit gassed up from the cocktails and continued working with that big load of future fuel while I could, or at least wanted too. Out of nowhere, Ricker starts berating me incessantly and loudly for breaking up “too much” wood. It was completely unfounded; there’s no such thing as too much wood. I had no idea what the fuck his problem was and told him as much. Ron was right there with me, dumbfounded. I told Rich to shut the fuck up and suggested making another drink. He complied on both counts – consoling himself with some internal demon. I continued as well – a huge stack resulted. Quite unusual to our various selected hiking locations, some of the wood was super dry and light. My breaking action had created and scattered a multitude of halves and shrapnel of all sizes. That fire rolled nicely and we dried out, but I couldn’t tell what Rich’s fire status was – I left it alone.
We camped, fished and times were good, although Rich seemed to take issue with me and Ron’s prolific farting – some truly awful but not unusual sewage blasting out loudly and frequently; it was actually hilarious, despite Ricker’s additional peeve. The freeze-dried food has something to do with that. A few days later things had changed dramatically… he practically kicked me out of my fire working zone, to take over. It was a fine warm afternoon, after a day-hike, field lunch, fishing, and now a few cocktails. Fucker starts taking the substantial three-foot long roundies, boxing up around my already perfect fire to a height of about three feet and two internal feet square. Ron and I were just sitting back going “What the fuck? What’s with this turn-around?” Anyway, he’s mumbling to himself as he now was scooping up all the duff from my breaking activities and dumping it right into the blow hole. Khaadamned eight-foot flames from all the dry fuel and stacked, blazing logs. He kept adding more too! Perhaps the medicinal grade hemp or Rumpleminz-Raspberry hybrid mix pulled him out of his doldrums – fuck if I know, we never really discussed it to an end. Finally:
Rich: “YEAH, get the fuck outta here! THAT’S a fire!”
Crazy bastard.
Location: High Uintas Wilderness Area; Utah
Elevation: 11,000’
Conditions: Summer; mild; cold at night
The water level in the lake/earthen-dammed “reservoir” was extremely low. Photogenic multi-century old stumps that were usually underwater were now exposed, and available as firewood. No other wood was anywhere to be found… we [much] later verified on a specially purchased map (NOT supplied by the USFS) that we were in a restricted zone… fires were not even allowed in the area where we were camped; CAMPING wasn’t even allowed where we were camped. It was restricted because, over the years, visitors had stripped all the wood from the immediate lake area – and They were trying to allow new growth back. THIS is the strongest, factual argument AGAINST campfires. Popular fragile areas can become devastated fairly easily – simply by walking. High altitude (relatively speaking) is particularly susceptible because of the delicate plants and shortened growth “season.” So, yes, we make mistakes, now, back to that big fire…
Chris: “Leave no Trace”
Dave: “Stack those mutherfuckers up!”
That fire, combined with the wind, the crystal clear chilly evening, the high altitude, the busted balls to get to the remote location, the satisfying mellowing cocktail and the attending patrons, made it wonderful. We visited the same wilderness several times after that – abiding by the restrictions every time.
Location: Popo Agie Wilderness; Wyoming
Elevation: 9,100’
Conditions: Summer; warm; extremely dry
We had just finally stopped after a long hot and dry exit hike at the target lake. My brother Jape and I were soaked with sweat… even my daughter and nephew were liquid. The two youngsters were crabby as the lunch was well overdue and the sun continued to cook our skulls. The area was so absolutely parched, that I think a tumble weed rolled by and between the desiccated cow pies. No way were we going to set up the usual fire. I instructed the youth to roam the area and retrieve nothing larger than light-duty… a lot of it. Even after camp was set, I really didn’t want to risk a fire, as there was also a lot of dead grass around. However, I think that I remember experimenting with the meadow muffins for what was purportedly a low wattage burn – waste of time. Maybe the jet-fuel level of the cocktails contributed to the quick rejection of the alternate fuel system. We used the stove, planted on a large flat rock, for lunch prep and for dinner. It was still pretty warm as we all waded while catching a million fish in the cool lake.
Early the next morning the weather was back to normal – very chilly. Breaking camp with bare hands and the temp in the low thirties is not fun. I decided to go with a fire, but not the usual style, it was still too risky. So, all of us started breaking up the previously gathered light-duty into six-inch lengths. With a little toilet paper in the middle, I built a miniature fortress surrounding the paper and out to the diameter of our standard pot. Djeep ignited what was to become known as The Stick Fire. Even that small, controlled blaze warmed our hands and boiled the water for tea and cocoa. The mood lightened. The wood was so light and dry that it burned easily and quickly to ash. We didn’t even need to water it down before departure – we just stamped it into the desert soil.
Location: Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness; Montana
Elevation: 9,600’
Conditions: Summer; mild; remnant snow; wet and raining
My brother Jape and I had already visited our scheduled location and had hiked a few days there, but the unusually deep residual snow, three feet deep in some places, made it highly undesirable to continue onward. We were tired and a bit aggravated but made a quick plan anyway to head to a location that we had been to before. We quickly packed up. The selected USFS campsite was really cooking in the sun… so warm, that we didn’t even want to get the fire going for meal prep. We still gathered wood – of course, but then we worked up a real gypsy-rigged tarp over the table and shaded the immediate fire area. We may have even used the stove then, instead of firing up, because the sun was just blazing.
| We travel with road gear and trail gear. Road for using at car-campsites, and Trail for loading into our big backpacks. Among other things, the stoves are different: Coleman two-burner cannister-gas for Road, and an MSR Whisperlite International for the Trail (white gas). Tents are different, tools are different too. Huge difference in food. |
On memory alone, no topo maps, we headed out on a day-hike for fishing and grilling. The distance hiked was already much longer than remembered when, miles beyond the trailhead marquee, we ran into a prominent red USFS sign threatening legal action if we proceeded any further on the trail. More aggravation, then we considered our options during the water break. The USFS is so grossly understaffed that it was unlikely anyone of any authority would run into us. Also, we had been to the destination before, and it was a bit over-used even then – AND – the sign was probably accurate in the posted bear threat. The area is both Black and Grizzly bear territory. A freshly out-of-hibernation and hungry momma ursus arctos horribilis will fuck you up for some stinky food. And of course our whole intention for this location was to snag a few nice fish for lunch but they would be smelly for MILES. A real conundrum. Fuck that signage; we proceeded with caution, and supposedly fine-tuned hearing. As we approached the lake, we grew more apprehensive… the area was really beat down and stripped – much worse than anticipated. We still had about a half-mile to go, we were violating, the area was barren (fishing would likely be shite then too), and we were going to make ourselves bear bait. We immediately agreed to abort the mission and head back. That would make ten miles wasted, having risked gear confiscation and fines, and worst of all: no KHAADAMNED FIRE! Not too happy as we got mucked up in the moose meadow returning to the inappropriately UN-marked trailhead.
Back at the campsite, under the now sauna-ish tarp, we cracked a few Red Beers (that’s Bud man!) and discussed our options yet again. The fire was minimal and actually unwanted – we let it die. The Yahtzee games and alcohol spawned a brilliant plan to hike into yet another location nearby, where I had FAILED to hit one of the prime, planned lakes, years back. We drove over to the approach road and were forced to plow through bumper depth snow, but we had missed the unmarked muddy turn off from the marginal and severely rut-filled gravel. We performed a flawless sixteen point turn around in the deep snow, headed back and found what would be our launch point – the ruins of a former lead smelting plant adjacent to a ramshackle cabin near a nice creek. Old rusty cars were strewn everywhere and it was hotter than hell. Task done! Out on the real road, we scoped out a nearby campground, toured the small town for a drink or two, were unsuccessful in acquiring a decent map and headed back to camp. NOW the fire was welcome; temperatures had dropped significantly. We were still not all that happy about our somewhat disappointing adventures so far.
Next morning, we used the fire for warming our hands, oatmeal and tea, as we packed up all the crap yet again. At the junkyard trailhead, we loaded up our big packs, bounced across the creek, located the actual trail and it started to rain lightly – just perfect! The snow was even worse once we got in a mile or so… post-holing and bushwhacking avoidance routes filled us with piney detritus and made us both wet from sweat, and from the drizzle. At the first lake, the bugs joined the fun with us – but we’re seasoned veterans, so we just happily accepted our new guests. At least the rain had stopped. We arrived at a stream crossing where the water was deep enough that we chose to remove our boots. Hah! My brewing grumpiness kicked up a few more notches when I realized that I had forgotten my camp shoes – I’d have to ford barefoot on the slippery and sometimes sharp rocks. If I hadn’t mentioned it yet, my language can get very colorful in such circumstances – I would have put Ralphie’s dad to shame just then. Back on the trail in boots, we came to a ripping white-water stream. We searched for a good five full minutes trying to locate a crossing that would allow boots on… no dice Gramma, not on this sorry trip. Even with my sticks for support, I cursed even louder when I thought that I had certainly broken my foot on a hidden gem in the streambed. Dried and back on the trail for a few more miles, we came upon a blockage of very large boulders to further heat up our already cooking bodies. Then more deep wet snow. We arrived at what was the base of the known very steep approach route to the target lake way up above us at eleven thousand feet. The entire area was soaked… not just from the earlier rain but from the dozens of mounds of snow melting in the small meadowy valley. Since it was so overcast and wet, I got to work on the tent quickly. Jape created a fire area and I joined him in a few minutes. ALL the wood in the area was soaked and there was very little downed dead wood – it was mostly green knockdowns from the heavy winter snow. We did get the fire going well enough to boil up the water for a fine freeze-dried lunch, but it wasn’t a very enjoyable spot. I was still a bit crabby, so I had gone straight to the white gas to help the fire along. Djeep and wand of course. We whipped up a few cocktails. I worked on a large nearby downed green sappy bitch – still with all its many boughs, while Jape built a table, yes, a table, for some Yahtzee. He joined me in stripping the big conifer and searching for some rotten-crotch to finish off the tabletop. Hey guess what? It started to rain, not lightly either. We put on full rain gear and stoked the fire with a bunch of marginal mid-grade roundies. We had a few more drinks under the tarp while we played Yahtzee out of the rain. There was a lull in the rain, and we finished off cutting the 12 – 16” diameter sappy and rubber tree, making decent sized logs. No problem drinking the cocktails. We were very remote, not on a maintained trail and there was clearly no one out and about in this liquid weather. The collected wood that we had was shaky at best and we really didn’t want the fire to go out in this quagmire. Sooooo, we took the large, green three-foot long roundies, rearranged the fire and boxed it up to about two feet in height. It started raining again. We filled the guts of the box with most of the decent remaining mid-grade and then capped the whole mess with enough greenery for a city block of Christmas decorations. We headed back under the tarp for some more Yahtzee and a few drinks.
Occasionally we would go out and adjust the “fire” … it actually had become a smoke machine, a very LARGE smoke machine. With the remnant frustration of dissatisfying hiking and fires almost fully faded and the perfect drinks flowing, we were actually enjoying ourselves, despite the pouring rain. We stacked that smudge pot even higher with the piney limbs (to clean up the area, dontchaknow). Khaadamned white smoke billowing out, completely filling the entire valley on both sides of the nearby creek and up the flow to the limit of our sight; we couldn’t see ANYTHING downstream except whiteness. That baby rolled for hours; the smoke hung forever, and the trip attitude had swung largely in a positive direction. The rest of the hodge-podge trip was fun, but that fire has been burned into my memory; HAH!
Conclusion
As you have read this docudrama, those that visited or were present with me at some of these locations, most certainly would have witnessed, or at least remembered things differently than me. Memory is malleable, and without constant group repetition the stories get colored from our individual ongoing lives. So, we obviously need to go out to the fire, re-hash all the wonderful times that we have had around the fire, and just maybe create some new memories.
| There once was a camper named Dave Who was eager and bright and brave. He met up with a bear Who was startled and scared and said, “Man, do you need a shave!” |
The Old Badger Speaks 