Tag Archives: Mt. Hood

The Camping Chronicles: Timothy Lake, Part III

After falling into Timothy Lake and returning to camp, I flailed about in our tent like a shivering man-child while The Wife forced me into dry clothes.

Dinghy McBrokenboat had set his crawdad trap earlier that day, so by the time we rejoined the group at the campfire he’d caught 4 of the disgusting little freaks.

“Look honey!” I said, holding one up for her to see. It waved its claws around, miming precious little death threats at her.

“Ooo!” she replied. “It’s a Crapdaddy.” Obviously I could not bring myself to correct her. Instead, I laughed and pulled out my iPhone, adding her quote to our ongoing list of Denglish hilarity.

We cooked the crawfish and ate them; each one offering just enough meat to evoke in my mind the shellfish genocide it would require to form a proper meal. It was then I noticed movement on the ground around the campfire. All around, as far as my flashlight could reveal, the forest floor was crawling with spiders. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. It was like something out of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets… or the night terrors I’ve been having ever since.

Because my normal clothes were soaked, I was wearing only socks on my feet, which left me feeling all the more vulnerable to spider attacks. I held my feet up as long as I could, like a pregnant woman in stirrups, before exhausting myself and retiring for the night.

The next morning, we awoke to the dreaded patter of rain hitting our tent. My coat was hanging under a tree somewhere outside, so The Wife found a white plastic bag and cut holes for my head and arms, fashioning a makeshift rain vest comprised of 10% German resourcefulness and 90% American shame. The rest of our group enjoyed the hell out of my predicament, while I choked down a little of the hair of the dog that bit me. I was cold, I was wet, and I was still angry about those other campers molesting our otherwise virginal ambiance…

But by God, we were camping… and we were camping hard.

Click here to read our very first camping adventure — The Camping Chronicles: Burning the German, Part I

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The Camping Chronicles: Timothy Lake, Part II

As you know from the first chapter of this story, we were camping at Timothy Lake, stuck next to another group of campers and their greasy teenagers.

With German efficiency, we tore through a half gallon of Canadian Club, chased it with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and set out on the boat. Floating around the lake for a few hours, we laughed and enjoyed the hell out of our pubescentless air. When it was time to go back (and after a dozen false starts), the engine turned over and brought us back to shore. There, my wife and our other friends leapt gracefully from the boat and walked up the bank. I, however, gripped the handrail and attempted to slide off the bow like a manatee. I am still unclear exactly how this happened, but I found myself hanging from the side of the boat; my American butt cheeks dangling mere inches from the surface of the water.

“Help me! Help me! Help me!” I cried, but my pleas were rewarded only with laughter. Raucous laughter, especially from my wife. My arms grew tired and I knew I was going into the drink. “My iPhone! You asses, where’s my iPhone?”

“I have it,” chimed The Wife, just helpful as can be.

*SPLASH* I dropped into the water, feeling it wash into my shoes, under my coat and through my jeans; swirling like an icy maelstrom around my wedding vegetables. I emerged from the water soaked and shivering, and though I was prepared to greet hypothermia with open arms, The Wife marched me directly into our tent and put me into dry clothes as if I were some kind of big, stupid man-baby.

Click here to read The Camping Chronicles: Timothy Lake, Part III

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