Month: July 2020

My nephew, Alan, is more like a kid brother.  I was still in HS when he was born and did my share of babysitting over the years.  I kid him that I even changed his diaper, but I never did, I just let the little bastard cry.  He has been trying to get even with me ever since.  Somewhere and   at sometime we began camping with Alan and over the years others have joined us in these adventures.  The regulars include my youngest daughter LoriAnne, her friends Mark and Jen, their friends Bobby and Jeff, and Alan’s extended family and friends which changes from time to time depending on whom he is dating or married to at the moment.  Also, a common participant in these campouts was Alan’s father, Bill, who was my sister’s first husband.  I have taken a lot of shit from my sister and mother over this, but when they were married he treated me like his kid brother, especially when it came to outdoor adventures like shooting guns or white water rafting on air mattresses with only one life preserver that we put on his dog.  Over the years these people have become our extended family.  Jen even told Judy that she was her daughter, who was born 10 years and one contraction ahead of her twin sister LoriAnne.  I remember a snow camp when we put three RVs in a semi-circle next to a snow bank then extended all the awnings out toward the middle and spent a lot of time trying not to freeze around a fire pit built by one of Alan’s temporary fathers-in-laws out of a 55 gallon drum.  Over that weekend the fire pit slowly melted its way through the snowpack and into the asphalt underneath. I believe this was the start of another Circle the Wagons tradition, making sure that when we leave a campsite, we leave no traces of our having been there, including wiping all fingerprints.

Every year during the third weekend in July we go camping at a cascade lake.  We tried several but eventually settled on Big Lake near Hoo Doo Ski Bowl.  Big Lake is fairly shallow so that it actually warms up during high summer enough that water sports like swimming, water skiing and jet skiing can be done for an extended period of time without the aid of a wet suit.  The campsites themselves are all right next to the lake and are nicely large.  If we arrive early enough, we can take over three or four sites, putting the party in the middle site thereby reducing the disturbance to anybody stupid enough to camp next to us.  Big Lake is also in an off-road ATV area, such that there is a maze of dusty trials and roads that you can legally ride right out of camp.  The lake is only about 20 miles from Sister’s OR which is the Jackson, WY of OR and has one of the few California bakeries I have found in my beloved state.  In short it is not perfect in any single detail but is nearly perfect in aggregate.  If it only had fishing Wes would show up more often.

Occasionally someone tries to fish at Big Lake.  Sometimes we even catch one or two.  Then there was the year when Alan led us on a hike to a lake just a few miles from camp that was supposed to have humongous  German Brown trout.  I have never caught one of these, nor have I ever seen one, but I have heard about them for years.   The next day at dawn Alan was banging on the door to my RV wanting to go.  Alan had not been up at dawn in years unless it was from partying all night the day before and not going to bed.  Damn I thought, there really must be fish there.  I quickly slipped on my sweatpants grabbed my hiking boots and was out the door.  There were five of us going on this epic, all agog with anticipation, as none of us had ever seen a German brown, and none of us had ever seen Alan catch a fish either.  We drove the five miles to the trail head and started hiking on that crisp morning to the lake which was supposed to be less than two miles in.   About an hour later with our legs burning from the climb we found the lake which was maybe 10 acres in size.  Although there was easy access to the lake at the trail head, there were a couple of tents there with the occupants still asleep so we tiptoed around the lake a bit, till the trail petered out and then started to climb over logs, through the vine maple, down into gullies and up the shear other side of them trying to find any suitable place where we could wet our lines.  A few hundred yards of this we finally found a spot where we could all spread out and cast in.  The dripping blood from the scratches would only serve to attract the voracious German Browns and besides the mosquitoes could just lap it up from our wounds without having to make new holes in our flesh.  

I put on a rooster tail lure and cast out as far into the water as I could and with growing anticipation reeled it slow back to shore.  Nada.   After a few more tries I switched lures.  Nada again.  I then went to power bait. It had worked at Henry’s Lake.  Another half hour went by.  Nada.  Then I tried worms, salmon eggs, and worms with salmon eggs, and worms with power bait, and worms with both power bait and salmon eggs.  Nada, nada, nada.  About that time, I heard a gasping noise.  Alan had stripped down to his BVD’s and had waded waste deep into the freezing water casting out even farther than I was.  He had brought us to this hell hole, and he was going to catch one of those mythical monster German Brown’s or die of hypothermia trying. 

Just when we all were about to give up, it happened.  Over to my left there was a movement.  Out of the tent came this tall blonde Teutonic goddess, bare beam and buck ass naked into the sunshine.  She waded out into the water with her perfectly tanned large boobs and began to bathe.  I averted my eyes from her while I tried to wrestle the binoculars from Alan’s father-in -law of the moment, but the old fart was too quick for me and a stingy bastard as well.  Soon the moment was over.  But on the way back to the car parked at the trail head, I realized that Alan had been right about the German Brown’s.   

One of the activities I enjoy the most at Big Lake is sailing.  I bought my sailboat for $50 from Alan who bought it from his dad for $50 who bought it at a garage sale for $50.  You can’t get much of a sailboat for $50, but then again, all three of us were not great shakes as sailors.  I don’t know who built the boat, but I suspect it was a failed attempt to diversify by the same people who make those plastic-coated Styrofoam beer coolers.  They probably got the idea when one of their coolers fell out of a party boat then drifted off in a stiff breeze.  Unlike most real sailboats you must lay down in it to avoid being hit by the spar or whatever you call that thing that holds the bottom of the triangular sail.  It’s the thing that swings around in every sailing movie ever made to knock the smart ass or the psychopathic killer into the water.  Laying down also lowers the center of gravity which makes the boat more stable.  This is a really good idea in a boat with two inches of free board but makes it a little tricky as you are steering with the rudder handle over your head and hanging on to the end of the rope attached to the spar thingy with the other hand.  To turn you push the rudder handle all the way to one side and as the boat comes around the spar passes over the top of your head, hopefully without knocking you unconscious.  Then you deftly switch the rope to your other hand, grab the rudder with the freed-up hand and straighten out.  All this needs to be accomplished in about three seconds without the rope getting entangled on your arm or have the rudder swing over and out of your reach behind the boat.  Over the years I got better and better at this, often spending two or three hours at a time floating out in the middle of the lake hoping to be rescued and towed back to shore.            

At Big Lake we go by our camp names.  Often the inspiration for such great ideas comes from the most common of events.  For example, the theory of gravity from the apple falling on Newton’s head, evolution after Darwin was visited by his mother-in-law and the big bang theory whose inspiration had something to do with the morning after a beer and bangers binge.  Like these great advances in science, camp names were inspired by such a common event. 

Alan and Bobbie were having an argument. Both must feel that they are in charge, which is OK with me.  If  you want to be in charge go right ahead, that way I can enjoy nature the way it was meant to be enjoyed; sitting  by the camp fire in my sweats on a lounge chair with a cigar in one hand and scotch in the other.  I don’t remember what the argument was about, but sometime during it Bobby said that she was the “Camp Bitch” and because of that Alan needed to do it her way, to which Alan responded that he was the “Camp Bastard”.  The next year at Big Lake Judy presented them with tee shirts with their self-anointed camp names embroidered on them.  After a few drinks several other members of the circle of the wagons group around the campfire that night started feeling left out and wanted shirts and camp names of their own.  After a few more drinks we started naming each other.  I became “Camp Crack” due to my unfortunate disability of having a flat ass and my refusal to wear suspenders.  “Hey Bruce, you need a new butt, that one’s cracked”, is one of the many insults I have had to endure over the years.

Wes having inherited the same disability became “Camp Crack Jr”.   Judy became “Camp Aboot” as she has a tendency, for no apparent reason to talk, like a Cannook.  Jen’s moniker was “Camp Barbie” as she was never seen without her make up or in a non-color coordinated outfit.   Marc was “Camp Bum” as he tended to wander when inebriated, eventually showing up with firewood that he has taken from other campers’ sites, probably without their knowledge.  Jeff was “Camp Hunk”.  Alan’s dad was “Camp Safety”.  Apparently, he lost his death wish after my sister divorced him.  But that name later got changed to “Camp Safety?” after he fell off a fruit picker’s ladder, he purchased at a garage sale and suffered a concussion and separated shoulder.   Even the dogs got camp names.  They were all called “Camp Dog” and never got tee-shirts but they didn’t seem to care as long as they were fed and petted.

Over the years more people started camping with us which required that we have officers and elders and such.  Why we needed these things I have no clue.  Bobbie nominated and elected herself president for life.  Which was fine with us.  What her duties were, was entirely up to her and she did enjoy the title. Sadly, all good things must pass.  Alan’s dad passed away; Alan divorced thus losing several of his in-laws from the group. Jen and Bobbie had a falling out over some silly shit and Jen/Mark left the group. LoriAnne moved to Arizona. Over the years it got harder to get enough campsites next to each other.  None of us seemed to have the time or energy to keep it going. My camp crack tee-shirt got folded up and is laying forgotten and forlorn in the bottom of a dresser drawer or I might have torn it up and used it for a grease rag. I even gave the sailboat away.  The world had moved on once more, although Bobbie still retains her office and title.

Judy and I are 70 and  73 years old, respectively. There has almost always been a dog in our lives.  We have had rescues, raised some from a pup. We have had papered pure breds, mixed mutts, big dogs and porch pissers.  Each was a character that loved us as much as we loved them back. 

Dandy: She was a 9 year old Brittney Spaniel who we were given.  She had been a bird dog and breeder for a friend of Judy’s from her job working in a vegetable cannery.  She had spent most of her life in an outdoor enclosure  except for occasional hunting trips. She was the first dog we had since our marriage as we were finally in a house with a yard that allowed pets. You would think this would have been a bad choice for us as Wes was a toddler at the time and the dog had never to our knowledge been allowed in a house.  You would be dead wrong.  Dandy would do anything we asked as she was so happy to be part of a family.  Wes would be playing in the front yard and get too close to the street.  Dandy would place herself between him and the road and if he managed to juke his way past her, she would grab his diaper and pull him back. We didn’t train her, she just knew what to do.  A couple of years later she started to have seizures, writhing on the floor while losing bladder and rectal control. They progressively got worse and the recovery time between them lengthened.  We had to put her put down at 11.  Cried ourselves to sleep.

Frodo:  I would never say that Frodo was a mistake but he was a dork dog.  We got him as a puppy.  Parents were small but he grew into a galoot who had the brains of a gerbil.  Front legs and back legs were of slightly different lengths so when he ran his rear kept overtaking his front like a trailer being pulled behind a lightweight pickup truck.  He also was the only male dog we ever had.  Every time you petted him the lipstick would extrude out.  Having him fixed did not change a thing.  Judy hated this.  What she hated more is that he would sprawl in doorways.  Try and step over him and he would jump up, his backbone hitting her China.  Often she would crash to the floor and she was pregnant with Marty at that time.  Frodo also liked to dig narrow holes in the yard using only one paw.  The grass would grow over the hole concealing it, especially from someone with a baby on board. The result was other falls and at least one badly sprained ankle.  I had to make a decision, give him away or lose my second son.  Decision was made when he slipped out of the back yard one morning and showed up a bit later at the front door with a gallon jug of milk in his mouth.  Not only was he an oversexed crotch jumper and a Malayan woman trap builder, he was also a thief.  Lucky for him we managed to locate a family with a young teenage boy.  Last we heard was that Frodo and boy were best buds and he had a great friend who was also a dork.

Otis: She was another used dog and a porch pisser.  She has half Pekinese and half God only knows.  Black and white, I called her the sideways skunk.  She was fearless.  Little dogs, especially Pekes, can have the heart of a lion.  When I was in grade school we had a couple of these devils.  They would crawl on their bellies up to a 700 pound steer, till the cow would out of curiosity would stick its nose too close.  The little demons  would then nip it on the nose and run like hell. 

Otis, although only half peke was just as fearless.  Working summer jobs at forest service cabins, she would back off a range bull that would go too close to our primitive cabin.  We had a pack rat infestation.  She probably killed a dozen over that first summer.  Biting each of her kills a hundred times in 5 seconds then carrying around the corpse for a minute afterwards with their lifeless tails touching the ground as she was only slightly bigger than her kill.  The encounter with the porcupine did not go as well but she let me pull the quills out of her mouth without a whimper.  Often I would sit with her in my lap as she gazed lovingly at me.  I would lean down a little to close and when in range her little pinking tongue would dart out and nail me right between the lips and she had just killed a pack rat!  I could die or get some vile rat parasite that eats brains.  Was it love or was she trying to take down bigger prey using a biological weapon of mass destruction.  Rats, range bulls, porcupines, and overweight masters, she could deal with those. But when Marty learned to walk she had met her match.  Judy’s mom came to visit for a week.  Otis got into her car as she was leaving and would not come out.  Fuck this shit.  She lived with Frances for the rest of her days.  

German Shepards: I have had three wonderful german shepards.  All different, each a love I dearly miss.  I heard a story a number of years back about a man who was working under his car when it slipped off the jacks and pinned him, his cell phone just out of reach.  His cocker spaniel was right there.  Took him half an hour but he managed to coax the dog into bringing him the phone.  Katsa our first shepherd would have done that feat in under 30 seconds, Gabby our second would instantly have ran and got help for the neighbors and Cindy, our last, would have ran in the house and hid under the bed. 

Katsa:  She has the only dog we ever had that truly tried to talk.  She wanted to talk, but the words did not make any sense to us.  If she knew what we wanted, it was done instantly.  Came home from work early one day and the wife and kids were not there yet.  So how does he who does not have a key get into his own house?  Yep , thats me.  At that time we had a sun porch with a sliding glass door.  Door was locked with a 2X4 blocking the bottom.  Katsa was in the house and so happy to see me through the glass.  Why was I not coming in??  She was so excited she was talking her usual gibberish.  I started tapping at the bottom of the door where the 2X4 was.  Every time her nose or paw touched it, I told her she was a good girl.  About a minute into this I litterly saw a light come into her eyes, for some reason the man who forgot his keys again, wants me to touch this fucking board.  Both paws now attacked it with glee and I was in my house  greeted with sloppy doggy kisses.  Katsa loved everybody and wanted to be with us no matter the circumstances.  

Waldport has fireworks on the beach every 3rd of July. Why the 3rd? Well the declaration was all done by the 3rd, it just wasn’t signed till the 4th.  Kind of like the sabbath really being on Saturday rather than Sunday. Bullshit.  Waldporters are just trying to get a few extra bucks out of the tourists  before the bigger and better Newport fireworks display the next day.  It was hot that night and knowing that dogs don’t like loud noises we left Katsa in the house with the windows open and walked down to the beach.   At dusk she found us ¾ miles from the house in a crowd of 2000.  She had pushed out the screen, jumped the fence and tracked us in the dark through a gauntlet of illegal fireworks.  When the fireworks show started she seemed to enjoy them as much as Judy, who literally has fireworks orgasms.  That wonderful dog’s love had unintended consequences.  A few weeks later, Wes and his cousin went to the beach and did not want to take her with them.  Although we were working in the yard we did not see her jump the fence.  She never made it across highway 101.  She was still alive when I carried her back home, but didn’t last long after. Even though that was over 30 years ago, if I think about it hard enough I can still feel the moisture on her tongue when my shaking fingers put it back in her mouth.  She was only 18 months old  and Judy can still cry about her.  

Gabby:  We got Gabby a few days later.  She was 10 weeks old and full of it.  Katsa danced through life, Gabby plodded.  She was a plow horse of a dog with a mind of her own.  120 pounds in her prime, a klutz and a comedian.  Judy could not keep her out of the flower beds.  Spanking her with a newspaper was a game, “oh ma ma this is fun, can be do it again”. Finally out of desperation and with a flash of pure female brilliance Judy began to beat the flower bed with the newspaper using every expletive I had ever taught her.  Gabby finally got it.  She never went in those beds again and even went so far as to run in the house to tattle to Judy when one of the three tom cats we had at the time had the audacity to violate that sacred space. 

When Gabby was a 3 month old puppy we were redoing our drainfield.  Word of advice here, hire it done, it is not DIY.  Our yard was like a WWI battlefield.  Trenches and dirt embankments. Drain field rock was piled outside the fence blocking the gate.  Me, after a long day of fighting the Huns, had showered and was robbed in nothing but a plaid bathrobe that Judy had fashioned out of some left over seat cover material.  That was it, no underwear or pJs. Our VW bus for some reason was parked over the fence and piled up rock.  Judy in her wisdom had misplaced the car keys, again. Braving the plywood bridges across no mans land, I  made it to the fence without incident.  I could open the gate but the piled up rocks would prevent me from closing it, meaning that my three month old pup could get out of the yard.  I decided to climb over.  Bad plan.  Got half way when the picket broke, leaving me hanging upside down over the fence with my stylish bathrobe up to my armpits and my genitalia gently blowing in the breeze.  I was literally stuck.  I could have yelled for help but I had old and nosey neighbors with heart conditions.  Not a good idea,  Just imagine the local news, “Naked man in Waldport causes double heart attack, film at 11”. Just then Gabby, little Gabby came running out of the house.  I kept quiet. After a couple of barks she ran back in the house and got Judy.  Saved my bacon and made me realise I had another great dog.  Over the years she did a number of similar things like saving a neighbor girl who did another over the fence face plant, jumping on the middle of my chest to protect me from dirt clods being slung at my by my kids after I had fell down in the mud while building an addition on our house, and grabbing me by the ass to “save me from harm” as I tried to sledded down a hill in the snow, pulling my pants off in the process.  

I could go on and on.  She was with us for 11 years.  The end was not pretty.  She was highly allergic to fleas.  On the Oregon Coast, fleas do not die in winter cause it does not get cold enough.  By the time she was 10 the flea bite dermatitis was getting much worse.   This was the time before frontline and advantage.  Oatmeal baths were no longer working. Garlic pills made her oily, smell bad, and did no good.  She had scratched herself to the bone again and infection was setting in again.  We debated about taking her to the vet yet again, trying anything new.   But in the end I took her out to the woods. I  will never get over that one.  If there is an afterlife with dogs and they had better be, I pray she can forgive me.

Cindy: I have talked about Cindy in other posts.  We got her used from one of Judy’s brothers Navy pals who had retired and could no longer keep her.  100 pounds of white hair and love.  She was afraid of a lot of silly stuff, like clocks that ticked, bug zappers and fireworks.  OMG was she terrified of  fireworks.  Found her cowering in our bathtub on the 3rd of July.   But unless there were fireworks, gunshots or bug zappers, you could leave her untethered anywhere and she would never leave the area.  She loved to put her hairy head in your crotch and push.  Kind of liked that about her.  She was 9 when we got her and 11 when we had her put down.  Lost control of her bladder and bowls at the end.  Judy took her to the vet.  Put her head in her crotch at the end.

Hanna:  This is the only dog who chose us.  We were in the MSP headed for Baker City. Stopped at a garage sale in Austin Junction, OR.  Not much of a sale but a lady had two pups in a cage she was trying to give away.  Half australian shepherd, half border collie pups bred to be cattle herding dogs. One male and  one female.  Judy went over to have a look.  The brown and white female came up to the edge of the chicken wire enclosure and began to cry.  Judy picked her up and brought her over to see me.  No way did I want another dog at that time.  My mother was living with us and I could only deal with one bitch at a time.  Judy reluctantly put her back and tried to walk away.  The pup followed her around the pen and as she walked away, the pup started to scream. Judy walked back, picked her up and she snuggled and sighed.  

Hanna was with us for 18 years. She was funny, fastidious, and maybe the best camping dog we ever had.  At the end she was deaf and demented.  She once spent a half an hour staring at a vacuum cleaner. When she was 17 we got a puppy for her.  A half german shepard, half golden retriever.  It perked her up.   She would bounce a half inch off the ground and the pup would  run circles around her.   I could not go with Judy when we had to have her put down.

Lady: Lady was that pup.   She loved everybody.  Kids, other dogs, and traveling in any vehicle.  Grab the car keys, no matter how quiet you were there she was.  Her favorite game was “fetch, fuck you.”   “Throw the ball, I will bring it back, now try and get it out of my mouth.”  One evening we were boondocking in Searchlight, AZ.   It was dark and she needed to do her number 2, which required a chuck it ball.  I would throw the ball, she would bring it back and tease me to get it out of her mouth.  I then escalated the game with two balls.  Throwing the second ball to get her to drop the first one and go after the second.  This worked for a bit till she caught on to my latest ploy.   Next I tried a soft frisbee.  She would bring it back, and I usually was able to fight it out of her mouth.  On about the third throw, she watched it sail off into the distance and just looked at me.  She then ran into the RV and came out with a chuck it ball in her mouth..  

After 4 and a half years we lost her.  She began to decline at 3.  Didn’t realize it at first but she probably had a genetic autoimmune disorder.  At 4 and a half she had a catastrophic collapse.  Could not eat or drink.  We were visiting Judy’s family in Washington at the end.  Made an appointment with the vet for the next day.  Had to make a trip to the grocery store the evening before.  She heard the keys.  Had to lift her into the truck.  Next day we buried her on my  sister in law’s property.  We cried all the way back to Oregon.  

Our current companion is an 18 month old, ball obsessed golden retriever.  Who every said that dogs don’t like being hugged never met our Kaylee.  She will probably be our last dog.  Just not sure if I will make it another 10 years or so.  So why do we do it?  Knowing the horrible pain that happens every time we lose one.  Why? 

I think the daughter of our current vet put it best.  She said, “in my life I have had many dogs.  When each died, it took a part of my heart but left a piece of theirs.  When I die, I will have a dog’s  heart”.  I’m almost there.