They asked if the troop would make room on our annual 50 mile backpack trip for an adult Eagle Scout by the name of Ramsey. We were told that Ramsey was in the army, on leave, and wanted to see some of the Sierra’s. After meeting with Mr Ramsey, our father and the Troop adults agreed to have him along.
The first time we boys met Mr Ramsey was the morning we left for our annual 50 Miler. He seemed nice enough; he told us boys to just call him Ramsey, and told the adults that he appreciated being allowed along and not to worry about him as he had brought his own food and would sleep off to the side, not wanting to disrupt our routine.
On the first hiking morning, our fast group was running as per normal. We were pulling out of camp while the rest of the troop was finishing breakfast. Ramsey had set up his sleeping bag a bit removed from the rest of the group and on our way out of camp we noticed he was still sleeping!
As the morning wore on, we got to talking and I remember one of the guys saying: I sure hope that guy (referring to Mr Ramsey) knows how to read a map, cause sleeping so late he won’t likely roll into camp until dark.
About 15 minutes after that comment, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. About 3 minutes after that I heard a boot scuff ground way, way back behind me. About 30 seconds later Mr Ramsey blew by our group like we were walking backwards. I mean that man was in a full on sprint. Flying. Pack strapped down tight and hardly moving as his legs piston pumped his boots into dust explosion after dust explosion.
Within less than a minute he was so far gone that we couldn’t see or hear him. Within 5 minutes there wasn’t even any dust to betray his passing.
We all just stood there stupidly and stared at each other. It was just about 10 o’clock; we had been on the trail for a little over 2 and a half hours.
We rolled into camp at 12:15 that day.
Mr Ramsey’s camp was set up, the clothes he had worn when he did the low level flyby were washed and hanging from a line, Ramsey was asleep in the dappled shade down by the lake.
We considered it a slap in the face. I mean, we were the backpacking studs, the Champions, just who did he think he was. We were the ones who could walk away from any adult we had ever met. There had been a challenge issued, whether Mr Ramsey knew it or not.
The following morning we were up at first light. And we hustled through our morning chores. We started kicking up trail dust maybe 15 minutes earlier than usual. Ramsey was still snoring.
We pushed each other, something we normally had no call to do. We stepped longer, walked faster, rested less.
About 10:30 the hair stood up on the back of my neck. This time when Mr Ramsey passed us there were two differences. The first is we only looked like we were standing still instead of walking backwards and the second was the faint smell of ozone in the air.
As before, when we got to camp, his area was made up, freshly washed clothes hung on a line, and he was asleep in the shade.
This was getting humiliating.
The following morning we leap through our routine and hit the trail before full light.
We hustled, bounced, jostled, and jogged as fast as we could.
But still, before 11:00, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and Mr. Ramsey passed us like an express train passes a grazing cow.
And again, camp and fresh washed clothes greeted us at the assigned lake.
The situation was intolerable. Our pride was wounded; we had worn up blisters on our feet and stiff knees and ankles.
Thankfully the next day was a “layover” day and we could catch our breath and tend our wounds, both physical and psychological.
During the morning’s laziness we hatched a new plan.
If we couldn’t beat him hiking, we would make him envious with our gourmet cuisine. Well, with our desert anyway. So that afternoon we spent a great deal of time searching our brick sized and shaped rocks and one nice large thin flat piece of granite. We tore down the fire-ring in our camp, and rebuilt it. We built is about 2 feet round at the bottom, tapering up to about 1 foot 12 inches above ground, then a quick shift back to 2 feet inside all the way up to the top which was closed off with the thin flat cap piece. In essence we had made a granite oven that was to be fired by coals.
You see, by this time it had become painfully apparent to our bruised ego’s that we were not even close to being in the same league as this “old guy” when it came to hiking. He had certainly proven that he could literally run circles around us while we were on the trail and still beat us. So we had fallen back on the tried and true, If you can’t beat ‘em one way, beat ‘em another.
Now back in the early-70’s backpack meals were nothing to write home about. Fresh food was okay for an overnight trip, but on week-long events, you had to carry simple dried food. Freeze-dried was just coming to the market and most of it was astronomically priced. Standard dried meat and vegetables and pastas had and still we the mainstays for meals.
And our dinner which was going to be Chili-Mac was certainly no great shakes, but we had planned ahead and spent some green to bring a few packets of freeze dried strawberries, some pancake mix, and some Dream Whip; all intended to be a breakfast one day. Well, we changes plans. We figured to add some sugar to the pancake mix and cut down the water a bit. In so doing we expected to get a reasonable semblance of shortbread, and if we cut down the water to rehydrate the berries, we should be able to make up some Strawberry Shortcake with whipped cream…all out some 30 odd miles from the closest trailhead.
Yep, if we couldn’t beat his feet, we would beat his taste buds.
We carefully tore down the top half of the oven and cranked up a fire. While it was burning down to coals and super heating the bottom layer of rocks we cooked our Chili-Mac and then while the oven master rebuilt the oven I made up the short breads.
Ah, even now some 40 plus years later I can remember how good those shortcakes smelled cooking.
We all chortled with glee as we pulled them out of the oven, perfectly golden-brown, thick, and hot.
We split them like English muffins and ladled out the strawberries and slathered on the dream whip which had been cooling in the small creek flowing into the lake.
We picked up our deserts, put on our smuggest faces, and non-chalantly headed over towards Mr Ramsey’s campfire.
© 2018, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved
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