All in all we rolled into the campsites that we would be using for the
night about 1:30 in the afternoon.
Under direction of the older boys, we all set about removing gear from
the two pickups, setting up our separate patrol sites and reluctantly settled
down to play cards and read the afternoon away.
First day on a trip like this is always the hardest on a boy. No boy who likes to hike, camp, swim and fish
wants to sit quietly in a campground among giant trees while birds, squirrels
and chipmunks run hither and yon. Nature
is calling. Every cell and fiber within
the boy is answering; boys want to run and play, run, wrestle, and challenge
themselves.
But starting the morning at 350 feet above sea level, and being at over
7,000 by shortly after lunch throws a real stress on a body. Heck, each breath has 1/3rd less
oxygen. And to a running, playing
wrestling body that actually needs more, that is a crisis.
The crisis manifests itself as “altitude sickness” which is really
simply, oxygen deprivation. Head ache, nausea,
and tiredness, and other physical symptoms are the common result.
The wonderful thing about this is that (within altitude limits) the
body typically has an astounding ability to adapt. Deeper indrawn breath, squeeze the spleen
reservoir and get more blood into the system, create some additional hemoglobin,
and presto, you can be up and running in no time.
Most people adapt in a matter of hours.
After “wasting” out afternoon and preparing diner, the adults decided
that all us boys needed to go and listen to the Ranger presentation at the
campground’s campfire. Boring stuff we
boys thought. Heck, sounded just like
school.
And after-all, a week-long 50 mile backpack trip in the wild mountains
has no business sounding like school.
So we boys tried and tried to
get out of it, but to no avail.
As it turned out, the adults probably wished they had listened to our
objections and left us back in camp.
Darkness fell and dinner was over, we boys glumly shuffled over to the
campfire bowl with the adults. Foolish
songs and boring jokes were the mainstay of the program until one of the rangers
got up and started talking about bears.
Finally, something we boys found interesting.
The ranger talked about how big, how many, what they ate, what they
shouldn’t eat, how they shouldn’t be fed and about their raiding camp at night
and rummaging through the garbage cans.
He went on to tell the campers that it was best to stay inside tents,
campers, or vans if they saw one at night.
To make sure their dogs were quiet and didn’t provoke a bear, and to
never confront one themselves. That
ranger closed out the campfire reminding everyone to have a great time at the
park and to remember to keep their food out of sight.
Now that part of the campfire program inspired some interesting
possibilities.
There were a couple hushed conversations held in the troop ranks as the
adults herded us back to camp and then sent us all to bed. Being intelligent (as opposed to smart) men,
they also immediately tucked into their tents and sleeping bags as they
understood the rigors their middle aged bodies going to be stressed by
beginning in the morning.
Not so us boys.
After waiting an interminable 10 minutes or so, 4 of us got up; Tim
Moxon who was Barry’s age, Barry, Jeff, and I.
We slipped out of camp and headed for the campfire bowl. Once there Jeff and I slipped into heavy dark
ponchos and climbed onto Barry and Tim’s shoulders respectively. The ponchos effectively merged our body
outline into the outline of the boy carrying us.
With the dark night, and from a distance all anyone would see was two
large upright figures that were about 8 feet tall lumbering through the camp.
Barry and Tim set off, a bit wobbly due to the lowered oxygen and
increased weight they were carrying. But
the staggering improved the over-all effect.
As soon as we got back to the main camp road, Barry and Tim started
growling and kicking garbage cans and making all kinds of racquet.
Joy ensued.
Okay, more like panic on the part of the campers.
Lanterns were unceremoniously quenched.
Fires were left burning, marsh mellows were thrown far and wide.
People scattered, chairs were knocked over, food and garbage was left
on tables.
Small children and little dogs were grabbed by the scruff of the neck
and yanked into camper vans, pickup shells, and trailers.
Mothers shushed kids at volumes that could be heard the next campground
over, fathers abjectly apologized for being too cheap to buy that new camper. I have often thought that we boys were probably
due some commission from RV dealers around California that fall.
And the troop adults? While they
may not have been a smart enough to foresee what we had in mind, they weren’t
stupid by any stretch. Hearing the
clamor and row going on all over camp, they came on the run. They knew darn well that they were “responsible”
for the two bears that were so obviously terrorizing camp.
Corralled, skinned, and reamed, the four of us slunk back to camp to sit
under guard until the wee hours of the morning when the adults drug the entire
troop out of the sack, made us all pack up without breakfast, and steal out of
camp before dawn broke.
And wow, were the rest of the boys pissed at us.
Not because they had to get up early; and not because they missed
breakfast, but because we didn’t wake them up and take them along on the “Great
Garbage Can Raid”.
Copyright ©2015 Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved
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