Friday, September 23, 2011
A Day Late and a Matchstick Short
Afterall, we'd taken 2 days off of work to allow us a leisurely 4 day/3 night backcountry vacation. We could take our time packing up on Saturday, play with the dogs (who didn't get to go,) and head up the mountain on Saturday night, spend the night at the trailhead and start hiking on Sunday morning.
Of course, between the 1:30 a.m. bedtime and the fair food of questionable quality-- I didn't exactly wake up early. And "early" to me is 9 a.m. to begin with!
But we had a lovely Saturday at home and I put my heart into packing our packs.
Somehow we got distracted along the way and in my frustration at the discovery that all our gear wasn't where I thought it should be, we ended up doing some major rearranging of the garage.
Well, at some point, we realized we weren't going to leave the house on Saturday night. So we called our dog sitters-- again-- to give them the updated plan.
I rarely have a campfire on my backpacking trips. Mostly because by the time I hike my weary butt up a mountain, get my camp set up, and eat something, I'm just done and ready for bed. So all I really need is a small, disposable lighter with my cookset to get the stove lit.
Mind you, we are both out of practice. I can't even remember the last time I was above 4500 feet in elevation, and even when I'm in "good shape" I climb hills excrutiatingly slowly. I was pleasantly surprised by the BF's non-chalance at my hike 20 feet and rest/hike 20 feet and rest method. But we were not making good time.
So when we reached the fork in the trail where we needed to make the decision between another 1.5 miles to Weaver Lake or another 4 miles to Jennie Lake, we assessed our rate of progress thus far and considered how many hours of daylight we realistically had left... and opted for Weaver Lake.
....because the BF considers camping without a fire to be a tortuous ordeal.
I set up the tent, inflated his Thermarest, zipped sleeping bags together and prepared quite a cozy nest to call home.
At which point the BF asked me, "Uhhhh... did either of us think to bring anything to start a fire with?"
Well, I don't know why he bothered to say "us" when the mere fact that he was asking clearly revealed that by "us" he meant me. And naturally, I said, "duh" as I handed him the small, green, plastic, disposable Bic lighter from the cookset. I'd even tested it at home before we left to make sure it worked properly.
As the lighter passed from my hand to his, it occurred to me that I should light the camp stove before he used the lighter to light the fire. A small voice reasoned that at least that way if the lighter suffered catrostrophic failure in the fire process, we'd have the stove lit and that would provide us with an open flame from which we could get the campfire going.
Nah. The BF is an expert fire-starter. A genuine master at the art of flame. And he's not exactly stupid-- he knows that lighter is delicate and won't handle being left "on" for long periods. He'll do fine.
And so it was that what seemed to be mere seconds later, the BF's voice wafted upward from the firepit to my ears on the increasingly chilly and darkening evening breeze, "well, that's about it for the lighter."
I turned to find him on his hands and knees, blowing gently into his little pile of tender, trying to coax the faint hint of a spark into a steady flame.
And then, there we stood, staring down at the cold, dark, emptyness that failed to be a roaring fire.
We spent an hour taking the lighter apart and attempting to get it back in working order. To no avail.
We ate peanut butter and jelly bagels for dinner and agreed that perhaps this would end up being a one night trip.
Naturally, I blame the BF. For one thing, I brought all the fire I needed. But at this point, one must also realize that the BF has a slightly compulsive need to collect Strike Anywhere matches. We literaly have 8 boxes of them in our garage. He cannot pass them by in a store without buying yet another box of them.
AND his parents are from the same town in Pennsylvania where Zippo lighters are manufactured! You KNOW the man has a Zippo! Not only does he have a Zippo lighter, he has the adorable little leather pouch that goes on his belt to hold his Zippo.
Now you tell me how it is that this man hiked into the Sierra Nevada wilderness with a hatchet, a handgun, and a Leatherman multi-tool all strapped to his belt but not the Zippo? He brought a 2 D-cell Mag lite for crying out loud! But not the Zippo! Not even one of his precious Strike Anywhere matches.
And that's the irony-- that this man should find himself nearly 9,000 feet above sea level in the back country of the Sierra Nevada mountain range, with darkness falling on a night that promised to dip to near freezing temperatures, staring at a fire pit with a stash of carefully selected firewood beside it-- unable to manage even a spark.
So we enjoyed one very quiet night and had more peanut butter and jelly bagels for breakfast-- a devastating departure from my eagerly awaited fried Spam and coffee breakfast that I'd been looking forward to; the BF considers not having to eat Spam as sweet mercy from the gods-- and then we packed it all back up and descended the 3.5 miles back to the car in record time... and stopped for lunch at Bear Mountain Pizza in Squaw Valley on the way home. (No. Not that Squaw Valley.)
We arrived home and called the dog sitters-- again-- to let them know that the plans had changed-- again.
We spent Tuesday unpacking, and I even made my fried Spam for lunch-- the dogs loved it.
Posted by Maggie at 3:27 PM