Twelve hosers enter the Canadian Rockies for a week with REI Adventures. Only eleven return. I kid, I kid (but I had you going for a minute, didn't I?). When you're traveling at the mercy of a couple of cannucks, you learn some things about surviving in the wilderness with others. Rule number one: never let them see you sweat. Or cry. Or leave trailmix where the animals can get them.
DO go with the flow. When we pulled into the campground, I noticed something a little off. A bright yellow fence surrounded the campground, complete with warning signs about electrocution hazards. Okaaaay, I thought to myself as they explained that it's there to keep bears out. I didn't think much about it because I was quickly distracted by something else (a shiny object, probably, it doesn't take much). The following day, my mom (my camping companion for the week) is sitting around with others at breakfast. "So," she says casually. "Did anyone happen to hear...I don't know...SHOTS fired in the middle of the night?" she inquires. "Shots? What shots?" asks our affable young friend Brett, who never seems to hear anything in the middle of the night throughout the week (the kid sleeps like a log! I blame it on his affection for loud heavy metal music). Our guides explain that...get this...when a bear is sighted in the middle of the night, a ranger leaps out of bed, shouts "hey beeaar!" and if the furry guy comes toward them he gets a rubber bullet in the snout. Hence the shots. (Unless they're making that whole thing up, it did sound suspicious!) That night around the campfire, we realized that if you put those two aspects together, it does sound mighty strange. Camping within confines of an electric fence? Shots fired in the middle of the night? Why, it's just your average vacation in the Canadian Rockies apparently!
lesson learned: those Canadians have a funny way of camping (again, I kid--I love the maple leaf, I bow down to the maple leaf, heck, I'm currently fanning myself with a maple leaf if you must know!)
DON'T leave a trace. Our second day, we drive up to the campground after a day of whitewater rafting to see someone's bag perched in plain view on the picnic table. A bag which I realize is filled with trail mix from yesterday. Because it's mine. "Whose bag is THAT?" Colleen, a teacher who is always the one to say what everyone else is thinking, asks. They all gather around to inspect it. "Oh, no worries, it's mine" I saunter up to casually claim the bag. A spirited discussion with our camping neighbors reveals why my bag is out in the open for everyone to inspect, and currently has a gaping hole in the bottom of it. Apparently, earlier that day their attention was averted from their morning coffee just in time to witness the sight of a large black crow dragging my pant leg (which used to be in the bag) down the road, so they came to the rescue. "Was there any food in it?" our guides question me. "Oh no, of course not!" I cheerfully reply and then retreat to my tent to see what the hell is in the bag. Upon entering my tent, I see a ripped plastic bag sitting on the ground, which I realize used to contain trail mix. I scoop up the evidence and whisper to my mom, who bursts out laughing. Yes, even after we heard the whole "leave no food out" speech, those shiny things distract me once again and I space it. Hey, when you're camping for five nights you tend to get a little disorganized is all I can say. I hope that Canadian chipmunk or whoever I fed is thanking me.
lesson learned: if you do blatantly disregard the rules, just pretend otherwise.
DO pretend you know what you're doing at all times. One might think that because I have actually written a hiking book, which entailed camping by myself nearly every weekend for a good four months, that I might know a thing or two about this whole tent camping situation. But if you're still reading this, you realize that no, in fact, I don't. After setting up our tent (which I was able to do with minimal help in case you're wondering, sheesh, I'm not that clueless!), we were ready to roll. That next morning, I compared notes with my mom about our sleep quality (I had alternated between waking myself up by shivering and feeling like my hip bones were making direct contact with sharpened knives myself, but I'm crazy like that). We deduced that the sleeping pads were just, weellll, maybe on the flimsy side. Yet, the little label on the pad DID say "self-inflating" so that just means it's magically inflated already, right? (Hey you, in the back? I can hear you chuckling you know!) Still I thought I'd assess the situation on behalf of my mom and I--to take one for the team, as it were. That night around the campfire, I casually inquire, "so, those sleeping pads aren't the best, are they?" hoping for a spirited discussion of lack of cush factor, but mysteriously no one piped up. Which is when Colleen (always the ever-wise teacher) said, "well, you know that you have to blow it up, right?" "Oh sure, sure, of course," I reply. That night I slink into my tent. "Mom, mom!" I whisper. "We have to blow up our sleeping pads!" We maniacally blew them up in under cover of night (it's hard to laugh and do this at the same time by the way) and sleep like babies. Cold babies. Because I was so focused on the task at hand that I'd neglected to adjust my campfire wardrobe, and after a shivering (albeit relatively cushioned) night I woke to find that all that currently donned my torso was a sweatshirt and a flimsy t-shirt. No wonder I was freezing my arse off! And furthermore...duh!
lesson learned: the ground is hard. Self-inflating does not mean that it's magically going to blow up by itself. Get a grip on yourself, girl! And put some long underwear on while you're at it, what, do I have to be your mother now?
DON'T let them see you cry. You know, when I moved from NYC to Oregon nine years ago, I considered myself to be a fearless outdoorsy chick. Summit Mount Hood, you say? Sure, I gotta check that off my list someday! Whitewater rafting? No sweat. Well, nine years of living here and experiencing close calls (which experienced outdoorspeople would call bumps in the road whereas I liken them to slight brushes with death) has turned me into a giant wuss. Thanks to a dangerous hiking fall several years ago, I've acquired a healthy aversion to scree slopes. And then there was that whitewater kayaking "incident" which makes small ripples in the water make me want to whimper. Well, this trip offered up both. First on the agenda: What my mom nicknamed (and which she was mighty proud that others started calling) The Zigzag of Death, a tiny exposed trail criss-crossing up and and across a snowy scree slope. I'm not usually the type to ask a lot of questions in a big group but as soon as I saw the Zigzag I pointed with my hiking stick at it and asked our guides, "are we going up THAT?!" We were. And we did. And I whimpered. Luckily, my new pal John turned out to be just the calm presence that I needed, stopping to wait and making me feel like we were in this together (he told me later that if he realized I was actually crying under my breath it would have freaked him out, because he was nervous too!). After conquering the ZZOD, my next task was a whitewater rafting excursion the very next day (stay tuned for a whitewater misadventures blog in the near future which will explain my white-knuckling in the white-water). I was feeling fine and putting my trust in the guides...until we pulled up to the shore to scout out a series of rapids. When I took a gander over the edge at the roaring water, I realized that had been a BAD idea. "Oh wow, you look like you're, like, afraid for your life or something!" someone commented. It wasn't entirely inaccurate. The guides mentioned that if you don't want to continue on at this point, you could go along the railroad tracks but "just be on the lookout for bears because that's where they hang out." Let's see...whitewater or bears, it was a toss-up but I decided to Stick With the Plan. Not before a nice chat with my OTHER new pal John, who had looked a little pale and silent on our journey to the river (his first whitewater experience). "Dude, what the hell??!!" I pointed a finger toward the frothing flurry of water just waiting to suck someone under. In a remarkably calm voice, he put his hands on my shoulders (or at least I think he did, but maybe I'm just making this up, I was starting to blank out!) and said "Megan, we're going to do this. Our guide knows what he's doing. We're going to be fine." Even though he was probably trying to convince himself of the same fact, his words did the trick. I climbed into the boat and paddled for my life, whimpering throughout the entire rapids (luckily the roaring water drowned out my sobs) and living to type my tale.
lesson learned: conquering your outdoor fears is easy when you go with experienced guides. Oh, and bring a pal named John who is slightly less scared than you are to help you realize that there is life at the end of the tunnel, zigzag or rapids. Furthermore, if you're going to completely fall apart, at least keep your ridiculous display of yourself on the down low, will ya?
DO book an REI trip. Two entertaining and experienced guides, 12 eclectic and hysterical adventurers (well, except for that one we still think might be left in the woods, joking, joking!) made a week in the Canadian Rockies a blast. From stoic Scott (our sole fellow Canadian who mysteriously was the only one who was allowed to use the axe in the campground) to our resident fashion plate, Andrew (who always appeared ready for hiking in fresh crisp clothes looking like he had just hiked out of an REI catalog) to mellow-yellow Diane to witty Krista to the hysterical couple Jose and Michelle to the aforementioned handful (plus a cheerful and adventurous mom), it was a top-notch crew. Look for us to appear in single formation on a trail near you. I'll be the one silently sobbing to myself and accidentally feeding the wildlife.
