Well, it has been near a month since I so publicly spat defiance at the nicotine monkey. I stated that I had started this blog with the intent of "raving during my cravings" and blah blah blah... So why no posts for so long? Well, bluntly put, I haven't had any cravings. And the reason I haven't is because I haven't quit yet. My stupid monkey is fat and quite content. (For now, anyway; the writing IS on the wall for the foul little rat bastard.)
What a glorious Labor Day Week-end! I love camping in the mountains. The beautiful, peaceful, unpredictable North Cascades beckoned with its lush, green, rain-soaked fingers and my friends and I, children in tow, answered its call like a herd of crooked politicians seeking a kickback.
I have to admit that we embrace a certain penchant for half-assed hedonism--that is, we enjoy that which makes us comfortable and stimulates or soothes every lovely sense (and really now, who doesn't?)--so when we have undertaken previous camping adventures, the sheer amount of crap we haul along with us to indulge this certain penchant can be, well I guess ridiculous.
I am proud to say, though, that this time--due to car space limitations--we bare-bones'd it and still stayed warm and relatively dry, which guaranteed a marvelous time. (Why would one need pretty color-changing lights and lovely scarfs for tent decor when you have an old-growth forest and a roaring mountain creek steps outside your tent door to look at? I actually made do with only one sleeping mat and no sheets or comforter! I confess, I did bring two pillows, though.)
One may ask at this point, "If you are so into your comforts, why don't you just RV it?" to which I would scoff, "Bah! RV's are for pussies!" But it is a valid question, I suppose, so with minimal eye-rolling I will just answer that the cost of an RV is prohibitive to us single-parents right now and I poorly mask my envy with withering contempt. And besides, I truly do love sleeping in a tent--warmed up to toasty perfection with a fabulous metal pie-plate of glowing tealight candles (my friend Deena's comfort contribution)--with the rush of a creek mere feet away. Furthermore, in my head, half-assed hedonism can only be fully enjoyed when one has to work for it. However, I must now admit that I am somewhat like a lazy cat by nature, so having to work hard for my comforts is one of only a few things thing that will move me off my inert ass. Yet I would still be a hedonist even if I didn't have to work for it--you can start to see how fucked up my head can get me.
We--myself, my two daughters, Deena, her daughter, and my friend Lance and his quasi-nephew--chose a walk-in site maybe 50 or 60 yards from the parking area, across two log bridges that span Colonial Creek, a glacier-fed creek that varied from chuckling to roaring and back again during the four nights we were there. We had a lot of hands to help haul stuff, which made choosing that site possible, because even bare-bones'n it, there were quite a few trips back and forth and back and forth and back and yet forth again to bring all that was necessary; we had three tents, ssleeping gear, a netted canope, a bunch of tarps, totes, chairs, firewood, etc., etc.
Due to the avaricious nature of some of the surrounding wildlife, we left our food in the cars, which necessitated more trips back and forth, and for those unfortunates in our party who did not have the capability or desire to pee in the woods (I personally have no problem doing so; years of practice I suppose, though now I do wait for the safe cover of the velvety forest darkness before dropping drawers--it's a boon I bestow on the rest of humankind to lessen their risk of inadverdent trauma; what is seen can never be unseen, if you know what I mean. You're welcome.) more trips across to the campground bathroom were necessary.
I can tell you, crossing a couple of log bridges in the dark of night with a couple of flashlights and a creek rushing underneath you is quite exhilarating. Especially when one of your friends maybe indulged in a couple of rum cocktails 'round the campfire to add an extra element of danger. Will she fall in? Will she find the bathroom in time? Will she find her way back to camp before dawn? I eschew rum for various reasons--a bad experience resulting in a school suspension years ago is only one of them--so I was the designated driver. That is, I led the way over the bridges, holding the flashlight steady at key stepping points, ears always perked for a splash that never came. That Deena, she can hold her liquor like a champ. Next time, vodka!
Oh my, time has dictated that I finish chewing my camping cud on another night, with another post. I AM ready to sleep in my own bed. I feel super-clean after taking that first good, hot shower after five days in the woods. But the woods are still with me in a way, I suppose--even after scrubbing every inch my head with furious concentration, I can still catch the faintist whiff of campfire smoke in my hair.
Ah, glorious!
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