I promised a camping story the other day, and since nothing significant happened on our trip to Deception Pass, here is something from the past:
JB and I went backpacking up in the Olympics.
Hike four miles up the road past Staircase at Lake Cushman to the trailhead. Another six or so miles to the Flapjack Lakes, which are right at the tree line.
Although it was July, there was still a lot of snow around the lakes. There was a shelter at the lake, active word being WAS. A sizeable tree had fallen on it the previous winter, and it was pretty much destroyed.
However, a good piece of the roof was still intact, and it had a hole in it just big enough for us to crawl through. It made for a tight but serviceable place to sleep. Saved us the trouble of setting up a tent.
One of the reasons for coming was to do a little fly fishing. Therre is nothing quite like floating a dry fly on a crystal clear high country lake and watching the trout come up from about 20 feet deep in a silver flash to take the fly on the surface.
The first couple of times I am always so hyped up that I jerk the fly right out of his mouth. It isn't until I settle down a little that I can wait long enough to let the fish get it all the way in his mouth.
Right next to the crushed shelter was a snowbank, which we used as a freezer. When we had cleaned the fish, we would use a stick to make a hole in the snowbank and shove a fish in head first, cover the hole over, and then mark it with a pine cone so we wouldn't lose the spot.
When it came time to eat, we would just go get a couple of fish out of the "refrigerator", roll them in corn meal with a little salt and pepper and saute' them in butter. When backpacking I always instisted on bringing along butter. Almost everything tastes better when saute'd in butter with a little salt.
After dinner and a while sitting around the fire, we turned in for the night. Even in July it was pretty damn cold when you were up that high.
Just as I was laying on my back about to fall asleep, something ran across my face. Something small and furry with VERY cold feet. It startled the hell out of me, so I sat up very abruptly and hit my forehead VERY squarely on a pine log holding up the roof of out impromptu shelter. I saw stars, rebounded while watching the stars inside my head pulse on and off, and crashed back down on my back, semi-conscious.
Something small and furry with VERY cold feet ran back over my face in the other direction.
Startled, I sat up very abruptly and once again hit my head.
Since it was so cold, I had climbed in my sleeping bag fully dressed. The only things I had removed were my boots and belt knife.
I grabbed at my belt knife, and started stabbing the ground to my left, but of course there was nothing there.
When I lay back down, I kept my knife in my hand. A while later the perp ran across my face again. I started stabbing off to my right. Unfortunately JB was over there. I didn't stab him or anything, but he woke up with me stabbing the ground close to me.
"Albert! WHat the HELL are you doing?"
Panting and slathering, I explained to him about being attacked in the dark by vicous furry ANIMALS. I don't think he believed me until I lit a match and showed him the big knot on my forehead.
Our packs were in between us in the shelter, so we went through them to see what the ravening beast was after. We found a pack of Pilot Crackers had been gnawed open.
We took the Pilot Crackers out of the shelter and set them on a nearby stump, and went back to sleep, although I had a hard time falling back to sleep, with my head throbbing from hitting the log twice, and being all keyed up waiting for another vicous attach by rabid animals.
I got up the next morning, and there, sitting on the stump, grinning his hideous grin and mocking me, was a chipmunk.
JB and I went backpacking up in the Olympics.
Hike four miles up the road past Staircase at Lake Cushman to the trailhead. Another six or so miles to the Flapjack Lakes, which are right at the tree line.
Although it was July, there was still a lot of snow around the lakes. There was a shelter at the lake, active word being WAS. A sizeable tree had fallen on it the previous winter, and it was pretty much destroyed.
However, a good piece of the roof was still intact, and it had a hole in it just big enough for us to crawl through. It made for a tight but serviceable place to sleep. Saved us the trouble of setting up a tent.
One of the reasons for coming was to do a little fly fishing. Therre is nothing quite like floating a dry fly on a crystal clear high country lake and watching the trout come up from about 20 feet deep in a silver flash to take the fly on the surface.
The first couple of times I am always so hyped up that I jerk the fly right out of his mouth. It isn't until I settle down a little that I can wait long enough to let the fish get it all the way in his mouth.
Right next to the crushed shelter was a snowbank, which we used as a freezer. When we had cleaned the fish, we would use a stick to make a hole in the snowbank and shove a fish in head first, cover the hole over, and then mark it with a pine cone so we wouldn't lose the spot.
When it came time to eat, we would just go get a couple of fish out of the "refrigerator", roll them in corn meal with a little salt and pepper and saute' them in butter. When backpacking I always instisted on bringing along butter. Almost everything tastes better when saute'd in butter with a little salt.
After dinner and a while sitting around the fire, we turned in for the night. Even in July it was pretty damn cold when you were up that high.
Just as I was laying on my back about to fall asleep, something ran across my face. Something small and furry with VERY cold feet. It startled the hell out of me, so I sat up very abruptly and hit my forehead VERY squarely on a pine log holding up the roof of out impromptu shelter. I saw stars, rebounded while watching the stars inside my head pulse on and off, and crashed back down on my back, semi-conscious.
Something small and furry with VERY cold feet ran back over my face in the other direction.
Startled, I sat up very abruptly and once again hit my head.
Since it was so cold, I had climbed in my sleeping bag fully dressed. The only things I had removed were my boots and belt knife.
I grabbed at my belt knife, and started stabbing the ground to my left, but of course there was nothing there.
When I lay back down, I kept my knife in my hand. A while later the perp ran across my face again. I started stabbing off to my right. Unfortunately JB was over there. I didn't stab him or anything, but he woke up with me stabbing the ground close to me.
"Albert! WHat the HELL are you doing?"
Panting and slathering, I explained to him about being attacked in the dark by vicous furry ANIMALS. I don't think he believed me until I lit a match and showed him the big knot on my forehead.
Our packs were in between us in the shelter, so we went through them to see what the ravening beast was after. We found a pack of Pilot Crackers had been gnawed open.
We took the Pilot Crackers out of the shelter and set them on a nearby stump, and went back to sleep, although I had a hard time falling back to sleep, with my head throbbing from hitting the log twice, and being all keyed up waiting for another vicous attach by rabid animals.
I got up the next morning, and there, sitting on the stump, grinning his hideous grin and mocking me, was a chipmunk.
