On Labor Day weekend a group of us went camping in The Great Smoky Mountains National Park. This debauchery was instigated by a friend of ours who had been camping several times in the same area and claimed to know of a primo campout location. It was isolated, gorgeous, serene, he would lead us right to it after a brief, easy hike, and Good Lord we sure were lucky to know him.
The Mister and I love us some camping, so we were primed and ready to go. We bought new backpacks and carefully laid out our clothes; I even made granola for Chrissake. When the glorious day arrived, we crammed our backpacks full of all the necessary items, as well as some more optional materials like an airbed, battery-powered airpump, snack foods, and most notably, lots and lots of wine. Because sitting around enjoying nature with your close friends is just fine and dandy, but getting loaded while doing so makes it all that much sweeter. Anyway, the backpacks were quite heavy indeed, but we weren't too concerned. After all, we had been told it was a "quick, easy hike." Remember that, people. It will come in handy later.
We were carpooling to the park, so The Mister and I met up with the others at one of their houses. As it turns out, the parents of one of the members of our camping contingent live in East Tennessee and they had forwarded an email concerning a bear advisory. Apparently there had been some bear shenanigans in the southwestern corner of the park, but since that is one big damn park and we were going to the northeastern corner we figured we didn't have too much to worry about. Had there been killer gazelles on the loose we would have been concerned, but bears aren't exactly known for their lightning fast migratory skills.
So the cars were loaded and we headed off to the Tennessee/North Carolina border. We arrived a few hours later, strapped the packs to our backs, and embarked on our "short, easy hike." That short, easy hike ended up being a five and a half mile trek. Up the side of a goddamn mountain.
The fool who organized this adventure is in his mid-20's and the shape of his life. The same could not be said of the rest of us. There was panting and groaning -- and not the good kind -- and at one point I heard someone breathlessly grunt, "Note to self: next time, bring a fucking mule." I was lucky to have my own personal motivator, although undoubtedly my husband got sick of congratulating me for every 100 yards I managed to trudge my miserable, winded self up the side of that goddamn mountain.
Eventually we all arrived at camp, an event which I commemmorated by sitting on my fat ass for about half an hour wondering if I'd ever be able to walk again. The heartache and misery was forgotten soon after, although I was so exhausted that I could only sit on the airbed in our tent and plot wicked revenge on my hiking oppressor. I was ashamed when I ended up calling it a night after a measly half glass of wine, but my body told me in no uncertain terms that if I wanted my neurons to continue firing my aching body needed to sleep. I think it was about 8:30. If only I'd had some Metamucil and an old Matlock episode the scenario would have been complete.
Upon arriving at camp we had determined our plan for bear-proofing. All food (as well as anything that had been in contact with food) was securely wrapped and placed in a pile which was subsequently bagged and hoisted up into the trees, courtesy of the rope-and-pulley setup provided at the campsite. The wine stayed at camp (although at a distance) because we decided early on that bears didn't like booze. Those clowns don't know what they're missing.
Around 6:00am I was awakened by some fool blowing a whistle. My first groggy thought was that some idiots were playing football in the street, but after opening my eyes and seeing nothing but trees overhead I remembered where I was. I laid there for a minute, slowly coming to the realization that someone must have sighted a bear and was making noise in an attempt to scare it off. After a few seconds the whistling stopped, all was quiet, and I drifted back off to Snoozyland. My restful slumber was interrupted about an hour later by another camper banging some tin pans together. Obviously he was trying to scare off a bear as well, but since I was in the middle of a nice dream from which I didn't appreciate being awakened I decided right then and there that he was an inconsiderate bastard.
Tin Pan Bastard managed to wake us all up, so we emerged from our tents and waddled around on sore legs and blistered feet trying to figure out what was going on. As it turns out, there was a little bear family that had been prowling around. The first sighting and subsequent whistling was courtesy of a couple camping on one side of us, and Tin Pan Bastard was camped on the other. TPB came over a little while later to report that his neoprene socks had been eaten and his tent slashed. Apparently he had stored his food in the backpack, which he had shrewdly positioned right next to his tent. He was bewildered by this tent-mauling because his food was in his backpack and why on earth would a bear do such a horrible, violent thing? Apparently it didn't occur to him that if a bear is hungry enough to ingest some synthetic rubber socks that it might not be deterred by a thin panel of nylon that smells of more food than this bear and her cubs have seen in a week. Fortunately Tin Pan Bastard wasn't hurt, but I'm pretty sure that somewhere Darwin is making notes about one big flaw in his Survival of the Fittest theory.
Needless to say we vacated the premises shortly thereafter. We rambled down the side of the goddamn mountain, and along the way were greeted by a ranger heading up the trail on an ATV. Lazy bastard. He informed us that the entire camp was being closed until further notice. We all exchanged looks of satisfaction and pleasure. We were beaming. The pride was practically tangible. Back in our day we had closed down many a bar, party, or maybe even a business here and there, but until then we'd never managed to close down an entire portion of a national park.
That one is totally going on our resumes.
Years ago when primordial ooze was still, uh, oozing, I attended a concert featuring The Cult. When I wasn't swatting pterodactyls away from my face I was adjusting my goth slut dress, lest I expose myself to the masses attending the show. Since the dress was made of a translucent cotton gauze material and I was wearing no undergarments there was no real reason for me to fuss over the position of said dress, but for some reason I was working hard to exhibit some semblance of propriety. My mother would have shriveled up into a shamed little raisin of a woman had she been aware I even owned such a garment, but I was one cagey little bitch. I left the house dressed like a Quaker, carrying my objectionable wardrobe in a backpack along with my chemistry book.