Welcome to the Jungle

Well, well, well.
Long time no see.

I could lie, and say I missed you, but shit I was out having a good time, and don’t give a rat’s (or other small mammal’s) ass about you or your feelings.

I am a cold and unfeeling machine.

Wait what’s going on? I’m fucking tired. Let’s talk camping, before I forget.

The entire purpose of our trip up to the wilderness up at Blue Lakes was to enjoy ourselves, get refreshed, and build some character. We are very unlike the United States Military’s in occupied Iraq, for many reasons, but mostly because all our objectives were accomplished.

We arrived late on Tuesday afternoon, and through sheer luck managed to secure the best damn campsite in the place. Set on a creek that links Upper and Lower Blue Lakes, sheltered from the wind and isolated from the bluehairs in their land-yacht RV’s, it was just about everything one could ask for in a space. We immediately made ourselves at home by setting up tents, building a huge bonfire, and scattering empty MGD cans about (all of which we picked up later, of course).

There was plenty of space for our gear, egos, and tomfoolery. In fact, we could have accommodated a much larger party, were it not for one of the greatest evils of our modern age: flaking.

*Enter tangential tirade*
I fucking hate you all.

That being said, let me explain:
I am not an organized or leadership-oriented person. I do not like calling you on the phone. I do not enjoy lists. I abhor details. I loathe shopping, especially for large groups. I detest responsibility in all forms, AND YET….

I do, on occasion, get off my ass to plan a trip / party / event which I feel my friends would enjoy, simply because I feel it is a burden which must be passed around. Although I would much rather coat-tail and bandwagon my way to enjoyment and experience, sometimes you just have to sack up and take the weight on yourself. And what happens?

You ingrates do not come through. I invited somewhere between 20 and 30 people for this trip, assuming a high failure rate, and how many of us went? Four.

Four.

As always, there are those who have excused absences: vehicular scarcity, the shackles of employment, being in another state, all of these are valid reasons not to come on my camping trip.

Being a Lamey McLame-o is not.

Let’s just say that if I ever plan shit again and you get invited, you can thank those few, proud, valiant men who didn’t bail out, because they were the dudes who made it worth it. Phew.

*End*

So camping rocked the house.

Blue lakes is up at almost 9000 feet, and is well away from any significant towns (except for lovely Markleeville, pop. 156). For those unfamiliar with the climate at 9000 feet, let me describe the seasons for you: Fall / Winter / Spring: Dismal and cold as fuck. Summer: Sunny and cold as fuck.

This is a place that is still under a significant amount of snow in July, and we were out there swimming in the god damn arctic frigid lake. Why? Because it was the awesome thing to do.

We boated, we drank, we ate a bazillion hotdogs, we fished, and we enjoyed. There are a thousand anecdotes I could share, but I am reluctant to offer my experiences to those too timid to attend themselves…

Whatev.

Here’s the Reader’s Digest version:

We trucked around the lake / islands in our boat, a small yellow raft christened the Party Barge despite its small size.

We were stuck in Markleeville aka Bumfuck Nowhere for four hours waiting for some hot springs to open, and when they finally did, we were the sole patrons under 150 years old. I don’t know why hot springs attract ancient Eastern Europeans, or even how ancient Eastern Europeans can get to a place like Markleeville, but they certainly mob deep to that shiz. We were horribly loserish for being there, and it was hilarious.

Chris, in an earnest and thought-provoking discussion about marriage and all of our lives after college, said “If I marry someone hot, and she gets gnarly, I’m gonna fucking bury her in the back yard.”

Yes.

Amos cooked or reheated every conceivable kind of food, including nachos, cookies, trail mix, beer, and Guinness on his Sterno. And can I just say that that fucking Sterno is overwhelmingly awesome.

Peter threw a full bottle of Gatorade at me as hard as he could and almost broke my knee and hand with it because he is a brat. An unopened bottle of Gatorade has the density and impactive capability of a brick, and contains only slightly less natural fruit juice. I may or may not have thrown a croissant at him moments before when he had his back turned, but no proof exists either way. I admit nothing. I am recovering swiftly, and we both learned something: do not (not that I ever did) attack Peter with baked goods, especially when he has anything heavier than a tennis ball in arm’s reach.

Also, all PG&E construction employees are filthy sons of whores, and I dare them to front on us again next time we’re camping. I may be 130 lbs, but 130 lbs + a hatchet > 210 lbs + missing front teeth and a Nascar T-shirt. Bring it on, fuckwads.

Again, I wish I could coax this ghastly thing into posting photos, but either the software is too shitty or the greedy ferret bastards at Live Journal want to make me pay for their crap in order to host pictures. Good luck getting that fifteen bucks, capitalist scum.

Basically, the place is so jarringly gorgeous it’s like a three dimensional postcard. Flyfishing from the islands as the sun set behind the mountains was like having Mother Nature herself bend down from the heavens and tell you to shut the fuck up and behold her glory. And behold we did.

Perhaps more stories of humor and hardship from our journey will follow, but I’m about ready to pass out at the keyboard. After marvelling at the beauty of the isolated wildnerness for so many days, the return to civilization and my moderately shitty life has sapped my energy. Tomorrow is the move back to The Lou, which I hope will be easy, uneventful, and quick.

Piece.

-T.

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