The Camping Chronicles: Burning the German, Part II

Striding through the forest at the base of Mt. Hood, The Wife and I heard some eerie, bell-like sounds. “Those are windchimes,” I declared, checking the safety guard on my canister of bear mace.

“Are you sure? They sound like cow bells,” replied The Wife, as if she knows my country better than I do.

“Totally wind chimes. Some hippies probably hung them up in a tree.”

I had to go pee pee, so I stepped into a clearing and whipped out my beefus. Sure enough, two giant cows emerged from behind a shrub — bells ringing — just pleased as hell to contradict me. That’s when I looked down to find my right Tiva buried in a fresh cow pie.

With my pride crushed beneath a pair of disgusting, stupid, grass stained, idiot, cloven hooves, I decided the cows would  make excellent subjects for a field test of my bear mace.* I popped off the guard and depressed the trigger — BOOM! That mother had some recoil! A huge jet of rust-colored pepper spray fired out, and it was thick, like 4 inches in diameter. No way could you miss a bear with this stuff. You could, however, give your wife a healthy dose of back spray by carelessly firing it into the wind.

I looked back to see The Wife’s eyes tearing up and turning every bit as red as the rest of her. Oh God, how mace burns! I’ve maced myself on accident a few times, but never with bear mace. Obviously it was time to apologize, wipe the cow shit off my sandals and head back to camp.

*No I did not mace the cows. They were too far away.

Click here to read the third installment of Burning the German.

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