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.
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