Six city slickers head to the wilderness to learn some basic camping lessons — the hard way.
Rocky Mountain Low
You planned the big weekend for months: six lifelong buddies braving the elements, hiking up into the Rocky Mountains for two days, camping under the stars.
You imagine great adventures at 12,000 feet, and what a welcome change of pace they’ll be compared to your bustling city existence: fresh air, clear lakes, mountains, and glaciers — and, hopefully, wildlife. If you come face-to-face with a critter — big or small — no problem: You tell yourself you’ll be brave.
But when a bear shows up, snuffling just inches from your tent, it doesn’t feel like a great adventure. It’s fucking scary as hell. And you’re not alone in that feeling: One of the guys with you, a dude you’ve known for 30 years, looks at the bear, then looks you in the eye — and pisses his pants.
We reached our first stop of the day just before noon. Sprawled out before us was Fern Lake, its crystal-clear waters surrounded by dramatic, snow-capped mountains. It was a perfect summer day, and we were in the high country at the heart of Rocky Mountain National Park, hundreds (thousands!) of miles from our crowded, polluted, stressful everyday existences.
What could be better?
“I’m going in!” shouted Rick. Remember the “snow-capped mountains” part of the description in that earlier paragraph? Yeah, well, we were at about 8,500 feet, and much of the water in that lake was melted snow from a couple of months before. I stuck a finger in and it was 50 degrees, tops. Fitz, a bodybuilder and the most fit guy in our group, tried to keep his foot in the water for ten seconds — then bailed after five.
Still, if Rick was in, Fitz was in. The CEO — so named for being the head of a fast-growing telecom company — wasn’t going to let the other guys one-up him. He was in, too. Mike, our buddy who’s a local and hikes these mountain trails every weekend, was game as well. He’d never met an outdoor challenge he couldn’t hack.
That left me and Cash, who manages a hedge fund (we’re creative with our nicknames, eh?), standing onshore. Like me, he had decided that, where this particulr risk was concerned, discretion was the better part of valor. We stared blankly at this suddenly gung-ho group of born-and-bred city boys. Better you guys than us!
The four of them dove in at once, and amazingly, they swam out 50 feet or so. At that point their bodies informed them of just what they’d gotten into, and they began furiously thrashing their way back, much to our amusement. This Polar Bear Club was abandoned just minutes after being formed. The badassery had been frozen right out of them. Cash and I took the opportunity to toss their towels into the woods before they reached the shore, blue-skinned and shivering their asses off. They did not appreciate the joke nearly as much as we did.
They did eventually warm up, though, and we trekked onward and upward, literally.
A couple of hours past lunch, we started getting loopy. It was a potent cocktail of altitude, nostalgia, and general camping knuckleheadedness.
Mike: “Look around, guys. This is what life was like before concrete buildings and cubicles. Things were so much simpler back then.”
Cash: “This is what life was like before we cured polio. So much simpler!”
Me: “We’re one-third of the way to an airplane’s cruising altitude.”
Rick: “I need to find some women and join the One-Third-of-a-Mile-High Club.”
Fitz (looking at my fingers, which had blown up to twice their normal size from the altitude): “Your hands have fucking leprosy!”
Then Cash dropped the hammer.
Ever since high school ended, Cash had become more and more of a ruthless capitalist, working insane hours, taking home seven figures, and traveling the world with his wife-with no plans to ever have kids or do anything else to cramp his lifestyle. Meanwhile, Mike was so smitten by Colorado’s many outdoor pursuits, he’d slashed his work schedule, leaving both himself and his wife — two highly trained physiotherapists — to support their two young daughters paycheck-to-paycheck, with part-time income. Cash couldn’t stand Mike’s lifestyle, no matter how many hikes, climbs, and triathlons he’d done, or how happy he was. Earlier, sitting in the passenger seat of Mike’s car on the way to the trail head, Cash had made a discovery in the glove compartment. He couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“I found some coupons in your car,” Cash smirked.
“For what?” Mike asked.
“Meow Mix.”
“Oh, that? Yeah, our friend works in direct marketing, so we get a coupon or two for random stuff.”
“You don’t have a cat!”
“Yeah, but we can give away a cat-food coupon to someone who does.”
“You don’t have one coupon for Meow Mix. You have 33!”
We all lost it … with nearly disastrous consequences. CEO started laughing so hard that he tripped and fell halfway down an embankment, the rocks stopping his fall but leaving him gashed up. This only made it funnier.
The size of the beast and the noises coming out of its mouth told us this was no raccoon. I am now intimately acquainted with the five stages the mind cycles through during an imminent bear attack.
“You there, fetch me some gauze and a new spleen,” I wailed.
We finally made it to the campsite as the late-afternoon sun flickered out. Mike was the only experienced outdoorsman, so he schooled us on the finer points of camping. Here’s the best place to pitch a tent. Here’s the best way to get that fire really roaring. Finally, he showed us the most important trick of camping: how to keep your food away from animals, and animals away from you. We set up a little platform, tossed all our provisions on it, then Mike winched it high up into a tree, about 200 yards from our tents. Pull on the rope the next morning and we’ll have everything we need to get back. As long as we didn’t leave any food in our tents, no critters would bother us.
After chowing down and pounding a few beers (whoever invented collapsible coolers deserves a Nobel Prize), we called it a night. Mike, Rick, and CEO went to one tent; Cash, Fitz, and I to the other. This was our first mistake: sticking the three least-competent campers together. Still, we figured Mike had taken care of everything for us. Within a couple of minutes, we all conked out.
It was dark out, so we couldn’t identify the approaching animal right away. But the size of the beast and the noises coming out of its mouth told us this was no raccoon. I am now intimately acquainted with the five stages the mind cycles through during an imminent bear attack.
- Realization: Holy shit, a fucking bear is about to eat me!
- Weapons Reconnaissance: Does anyone have a shotgun? How about a samurai sword? What’s this, a can opener? Really?!
- Frantic Search for Reassurance: Someone’s gotta have a plan, right? Guys? Guys?!
- Prayer: I haven’t been to a place of worship in a decade, but, God? Hey there. Long time …. A little help?
- Acceptance: Well, we’re all going to die someday There are worse times to go than while on assignment for Penthouse, surrounded by your best friends.
I had reached Stage 5 and the relative calm it imparted when the bear swiped the tent’s flap with its giant paw. I instantly vaulted back to Stage 1. Cash yelped — there’s no other word for it — and the three of us crouched impotently, petrified.
The situation was as illogical as it was terrifying. Mike had stashed all our food far away, up a tree. We weren’t making noise — hell, we were sleeping — when the bear approached. What had drawn it to our tent?
After about two more panic-stricken minutes, we watched the bear give up his search for food and amble away.
I gave him some time, then grabbed my flashlight. Fitz and Cash were ghost-white. No one said anything.
I noticed Cash’s pants, and their unmistakable wet spot. It wasn’t quite funny yet. Then I noticed something that wasn’t funny at all, and may never be: Fitz shifted his weight, producing a loud, crinkling noise. At his feet were three half-eaten protein bars, partially encased in their foil wrappers. What a cock nozzle.
We trudged back down the mountain the next day, five of us staring daggers at Fitz. The other three guys had been frozen with fear in their tent, and I don’t blame them; it’s not like getting out of their tent would have been a good idea. We’d learned our lesson: Don’t wander into the woods with a bunch of city-boy idiots, and definitely don’t bunk with a guy who protein-loads like he’s about to compete in the Olympics.
And you know what? I may never go camping again. I think I’ll take up something less dangerous. Like skydiving. Without a parachute. Into a field laced with land mines. And snakes. And anthrax.
You may find, of course, slightly more authoratative source for ways to keep safe from bears while camplng. That said, we mostly picked that link because we really loved the name of the site. By the way, if you really want to “cam;” the Rocky Mountains, our internal Colorado native gave perhaps the most sane advice. He explained, “Have you ever slept on granite? They call them Rocky Mountain for a reason, you know. Screw the tents. Go to Breckenridge.”
