“Although we are accustomed to separate nature and human perception into two realms,
they are, in fact, indivisible. Landscape is the work of the mind.
Its scenery is built as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock.”
— Simon Schama
By the time dinner was over, I’d had enough of wondering if it was going to rain. I made up my mind that I wanted to move a few things and stay in the cave tonight. I told myself that I would not want to wake up in the morning with everything soaked. “You still have time to move it all and avoid the hassle,” said my internal, rational voice. But the ego sneered, “You really don’t want to be anywhere near that cave… when Mr. Bear comes home!” Deep down, I wanted the adventure of staying in the cave for just one night, like so many of our earliest ancestors must have done. I wanted to get in touch with my inner Cro-Magnon. I decided I would persuade someone slower to join me.
“C’mon Logan,” I persuaded, “I’ll let you build a little fire in the fireplace!” That got his interest. He fancied himself the Keeper of the Flame, after tending our tribe’s modest little campfire back at Kangaroo Lake. I recalled the foolish character in the movie Quest for Fire who had let the tribal flame fall in the water, nearly wiping out his prehistoric mates. When Logan was old enough for the crude sex scenes, he would appreciate that movie. He believed in bravery and heroism in an abstract, mythical sort of way. He was very literate for still being in the single-digit age bracket, and he devoured comic books and graphic novels – especially anime. From behind his closed bedroom door at home, the sound effects of epic battles and mock dismembering could be heard often, as his unfortunate action figures endured the catastrophes of a new generation. Logan’s toys led very difficult lives.
Judy and Kevin wanted nothing to do with any more work. “We’re staying right here,” Judy said stubbornly, “So have a great night being on the room service menu.”
“Don’t worry, there have never been any bears in that cave!” I assured Logan as I carried our packs to the cave entrance. His eyes were as big as bear claws – I mean donuts.
“You can tell because it smells c-clean,” he said with false bravado. He still stuttered a bit when he was nervous. “Even Mama would sleep in there, ha ha.”
I stopped and fixed him with a serious eye, cocking one eyebrow dubiously. “Um, no, she wouldn’t.”
“You’re right. She’d never sleep in there, even if it had a bed.” We laughed together, on the way back to camp for the rest of our stuff. It was getting dark.
We rolled up our sleeping bags and mats, and brought them to the threshold of a new adventure. Sleeping in a cave! It sounded like something Daniel Boone would have done. “Besides, bears won’t come anywhere near here with the dogs around.”
“But the dogs are with them…” Logan was gazing back in the direction of the campsite, starting to have second thoughts, as it was getting noticeably darker. He seemed to regret that he couldn’t beg off very easily, since I had carried his pack all the way up here. He owed me one, and he knew it.
“Oh, bears can smell ‘em a mile away, and they don’t want the hassle, believe me.” I peered under the low entrance, into the inky depths of the cave. My headlamp showed everything was just as we had left it. I realized I had never seen the cave at nighttime. “I tell you what. If we don’t like it, I’ll carry everything back, and we can sleep in the tent, ok?”
We bustled about with over-preparation, knowing that to stop and lie down would be the end of control over what happened next. The gray crack that was the opening faded to black, and we were crowded by the boulders that now seemed to be leaning inwards, as if to snuff out the light from my headlamp. “Good night,” I said as normally as I could, and switched it off. Blackness poured in and filled the cave with still, liquid silence, like being immersed in crude oil. No sound could be heard from outside. Then, from all around us, little varmint rustlings emanated tentatively from deep within the cracks. There was probably a labyrinth of rodent gangways throughout the entire rock pile! Our eyes could not see a thing, so our senses of hearing and touch were amplified. We could sense the anxious movements of the critters as they bustled all about us on their nocturnal errands. I could hear the scuffling of their little claws on the hard rocks. The graveyard shift was just beginning, and all the workers were hurrying into their positions on the line. Pitter-patter! Rustle! Nibble-nibble! Snap! Every tiny noise grew to a crescendo of cymbals at an orchestra. It was going to be a lo-o-ong night!
Finally, my exhausted limbic system crashed from overload. My frazzled nerves had been on edge all day, making sure Logan was okay, carrying his pack, and seeing to every camping detail. I decided to ascribe a conditional comfort to the scurrying noises all around us. I imagined we were hearing the same noises our ancestors heard for thousands of years. There was a grim sort of inevitability to it all, like lying in a coffin waiting for the worms to come. “Logan, are you awake?” His breathing had been even for some time. The hairs on my left arm bent back and forth almost imperceptibly with his breath. It was so still. The last thing I remembered was to bring my headlamp inside my sleeping bag, so I knew exactly where it was in case I needed it. I turned on my side…
…And it was morning! The slight grayness of the entrance crack gleamed lighter than it really was. I stirred, and many little feet scampered away in alarm after one startled “Squeak!” split the silence. Logan was still asleep, as though he hadn’t moved. I did a quick mental calculation: we must have slept for eight hours straight! I watched with satisfaction as the gray light slowly brought definition to the fuzzy rock walls around me. I had spent the night in a real cave, like Tom Sawyer! I hoped it had poured the night before. I checked around my sleeping bag for moisture. The small pebbles and powdered rock felt dry and cool. I had spent the night in a cave, and hadn’t been eaten! My son hadn’t been eaten, either, which was good because that would have been difficult to explain to Joy when I got home.
My sore muscles needed to change position and stretch. Logan had disappeared inside his sleeping bag, but I didn’t want to leave him to wake up in a cave, alone in the wilderness, so I shook him gently. “Hey, it’s morning, big guy!” I was genuinely moved by the moment. I was so grateful to him for going along with my crazy plan to sleep in a freaking rock cave, for crying out loud! “Let’s get out of here and have some breakfast, okay?”
“Aaaarrghh!” The sleeping bag groaned in irritation. Logan was not a morning person under the best of circumstances, and this was the opposite of his cozy suburban bedroom.
“OK, wait here, I’ll be back soon.” I made leaving noises.
The sleeping bag unfurled suddenly, and Logan sprang to his feet in one movement, like a kernel of popcorn exploding. “Where are my shoes?”
Back at camp, all was still. Jesse was the first to notice us, and barked from inside Kevin’s tent until I spoke to him. Then he barked some more, and Kevin barked at him to shut up. James whined and Judy groaned from inside their tent, and all was right with the world. It was nice to know we had survived our little overnight adventure in Baggins End. I needed a cup of strong coffee in a way that would make a heroin addict seem unmotivated. I remembered one unfortunate car camping trip long ago with some friends, when we had forgotten the coffee. We drove to the nearest store immediately, and it was 27 miles away. I checked the special pocket where the precious life support grounds lay hermetically sealed in triple plastic. Opening the bag was like bringing water to the desert.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Judy sat in her tent opening, rubbing her legs. “My bones are sore.” James stayed inside while the sleeping bag was still warm, until he saw Jesse checking the food bowl.
“I can’t tell what part of me is sore,” I said truthfully. “It’s all one big ball of pain.”
Kevin was busy searching underneath his tent for the rock that had driven him crazy all night. Judy stretched and yawned. Jesse and James limped painfully around the camp on a perfunctory chipmunk patrol. Logan’s eyes were puffy and his hair was frightfully messy, the way only a sleeping bag could do. If any other hikers had seen us that morning, they would have probably called in a rescue team.
The smell of coffee brewing coaxed Judy out of her tent for good. The boys fought over who got to use the stove next to boil water for their oatmeal. Judy lectured them about fuel efficiency, and posed the logic that they could boil their water together in the same pan. Logan and Kevin looked warily at each other, as if this would somehow leave one of them without enough hot water. I sat on a log taking in the scene, still not believing we were actually here. I looked over at the huge pile of stuff extracted from our packs and strewn on top of a handy flat rock. The packs themselves were now tied to a tree trunk to be accessible as a pantry. “Did I really carry all that shit up here myself?” I asked in amazement, and had an immediate sense of saying the same thing before, sitting on the same log, like an echo down the tunnel of time. There were extra clothes that Joy had somehow slipped into Logan’s pack (I carried those too, damn it!), and enough underwear so he could change for every meal. Logan had also stashed a couple of small books in my pack (the sneaky devil), which was retaliation for not having access to any video games. I had my usual assortment of backpacking gear in the “just in case” and “you never know” categories. It seemed as though my obsessive attempts to keep the weight down had backfired once again. Enslaved to my lists and “what if” scenarios, I had pretty much brought everything except the kitchen sink.
To say that alpine mornings merely enhance one’s appetite would be an insult to mountain men everywhere. Camping meals are ancient acts of solemn ritual; to be performed with reverence and great concentration. Logan and Kevin consumed their instant oatmeal efficiently and silently, both apparently ravenous from the exertion the day before. They checked each other’s bowls frequently to see if one got a larger portion or better flavor than the other. Knowing about boys, we had brought plenty of extra food, and they were already tearing open another packet of oatmeal each. The dogs watched them intently: two serious faces synchronized in following every movement of the spoon from bowl to mouth. “You aren’t getting any of this, Jesse!” Kevin said tauntingly. “Your food is over there.” Jesse followed his finger mournfully to where his dry kibble sat, untouched, in a bright yellow plastic bowl. Then he resumed begging for oatmeal. James sat patiently, with the expectant air of the favored. He didn’t get anything either, so he sighed loudly at the unfairness of the world, shook his thick coat from side to side, and unhappily shuffled over to his red bowl. Jesse quickly glanced at his own dismal meal; then trotted over to see if James had anything better. The bigger dog made toothy, menacing noises in between crunches, maneuvering his body this way and that to block the pesky pup. Finally, with the beleaguered face of a castaway surviving on raw snails and moldy seaweed, poor Jesse finally resigned himself to choking down the cruel contents of his yellow bowl.
I had brought real bacon and eggs for this special morning: the boys’ first breakfast at Little Bear Lake! After the appetizers were consumed, I set about creating an authentic camp spread. Logan the Fire Master had a good campfire going, and I raked some coals aside for the frying pan. First, we had fresh scrambled eggs with garlic, onion, and peppers I had chopped ahead of time and folded in plastic wrap. I tapped out a few drops of Tabasco sauce onto my portion, so smug in my cleverness to have saved 1.5 ounces by transferring the elixir to a tiny plastic bottle. The next course was applewood smoked and peppered bacon, which I had wrapped in five layers of Ziploc bags to keep the bears from following me up the trail. The dogs were extremely vexed to find they had been tricked into eating their kibble, when there was still bacon to be had! They paced around like hungry lions, sniffing indignantly wherever the tantalizing bacon smell wafted. I carefully gave them the grease after it cooled, and it was amazing to see how only two dogs could look like a full-on rugby scrum. I wanted them to get every last bit so there would be no enticing smells to attract ursine visitors. Bears can smell bacon about a hundred miles away, and they’ll fly in if they can’t find a cab. It was an extravagant feast, and we ate it at the best table down by the lake. The boys were in excellent spirits after packing all eight corners of their stomachs. One may nod sagely about the finest restaurants in Europe, or extol the lavishness of an Emperor’s banquet in China, but outdoor dining at Little Bear Lake is the stuff of gastronomic legend!
“The shared meal elevates eating from a mechanical process of fueling the body to a ritual of family and community, from the mere animal biology to an act of culture.”
— Michael Pollan