Earth Wind and Fire

I've got ten minutes to write whatever follows. Then its bed time, I swear.
I went camping this weekend with Jennifer Thompson, aka Fern. We drove to Grand Jean at the base of the Sawtooth mountains. I don't know about others, but I think that a name like "Grand Jean" should denote some sort of municipality. Or atleast a ghost town. In reality, Grand Jean is a campground consisting of several outhouses, firepits, and semi flat spots where tents once were and tents will most certainly be. That's pretty much it. FYI. Well, ok, there is a "lodge" not far from the camping area. It appeared to me to be a glorified cabin. Very rustic. In other words; small, dirty, and made up of a lot of wood. It wasn't open. Actually, I don't think there was anyone else at the camp ground except Fern and Known Male. What does this tell us? That there are a lot of anti-camping lame asses in this state. Jesus. You'd think Idahoans would be crawling all over their beloved Sawtooth mountains during the first gorgeous weekend in many many weeks. My hypothesis is that while Fern and I were marching beneath towering granite along side a very white raging stream, everyone else was packed inside Edwards watching someone turn all sinister n' dark. Good for them, good for us.
So, the big news is that it was cold. Bitterly cold. But get this. If you haven't experienced camping in the high high mountains, you may not be aware of a certain phenomenon. Its called extreme temperature variation between night and day. Jennifer and I froze our asses off Friday night through Saturday morning. It made sleeping just that much more, um, not happening. {The other things that made it a challenge were: not being in my own bed; trying to stay on a narrow lumpyish air mattress (me being a tosser and a turner with supa long arms); the rain; and the wind. The whole experience, basically.} Ok, so it was the kind of cold that will keep people lying awake in their sleeping bags for hours after sunrise despite needing to pee like, um, people who haven't peed in 12 hours. Then, it was warm and glorious and perfect all of a sudden. And we were hiking up a trail (of the name "trail lake trail") that was the perfect grade up the perfect mountain forest along the perfect mountain stream. I felt like we were really getting somewhere. We were going up, up, up at a pretty good clip. The plan was to hike 4-5 miles to several high mountain lakes. Having already seen the indescribable beauty of a few high mountain lakes when I spent a summer at Redfish lake, I couldn't wait to share such an experience with Fern. Sadly, it wasn't to be, as snow happened. It didn't fall from the sky, it was just in our way, there, squatting on the trail. And it wouldn't move. So, we walked over it, because, well, the lakes couldn't be THAT much further...right? We tried to walk over it, but sometimes we walked down in it. Every few steps, the snow would swallow a foot, an ankle, a shin, or an entire leg. As you can imagine, it takes a little extra energy to extract oneself from snow on a regular basis, when trying to travel from point A to point B. At first it wasn't hard. In fact, I recall some lauging. I felt the need to formally recognize that things were still ok despite the snow. I said matter-of-factly, "this is NOT hard"-just to put it out there, you know. Then, at some point, it got tough. Or else it just plain sucked. I'm not sure which came first, but the toughness and the suckiness combined to make the whole ordeal, well, an ordeal. And then came the fear that I would see my lovely warm and alive Fern staring back at me in horror as she flailed in icy cold water which quickly swept her out of site, over falls, against rocks, and under debris...ugh....SO not cool... Thus, as she stepped out onto a very old and somewhat rottenish looking log to cross the raging creek, I quickly reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her back. Which, understandably, she didn't fully appreciate. Apparently, she hadn't heard my request to "test" the log before either one of us stepped out onto it. Anytoot, later, we rehashed the whole thing, much as I'm doing now, and came to understand in depth all the reasons why any grumpyness coincided with the occurance. We hiked back. No bear was seen. I didn't have to employ any of the evasive manuvers I conjured up while hiking through the scrubby, beary sections of trail. For some reason, if a bear had been spotted, I doubt Fern would have jumped onto my shoulders holding a big branch, yelling and waving it wildly. Instead, I'm sure we would have done as Jennifer suggested; scream at the top of our lungs and run away as fast as we can. Anyway, we finished out the hike with singing and wild gesticulations toward the sky. Back in the shade of our roomy tent, we lounged, satisfied with the attractive way in which we moved our bodies up and down the mountain. Next, we moved our bodies in a different, but also highly attractive way...we ate lunch. I had the best sandwhich of all time (it made all of my dreams come true). We packed up. We drove away. We engaged in conversation and listened to music that were both of a hightened quality. The time flew by, and before we knew it, we were home.
Exactly 9 minutes and 50 seconds have passed, I swear. Time to go to bed. G'night.