Working Out the Kinks

Monday, July 30, 2007
Wilderness Gateway Campground, Lochsa River, Idaho

First the embarrassing confessions. Last night Walt’s camping stove wouldn’t work properly, having not been used for probably 8 years. I refrained from reminding him that I had tried to talk him into a new one last summer. Then, yesterday at lunchtime we drove away from Apgar campground where we had stopped for a picnic with the pillows sitting on top of the car, where Walt had put them when he got the cooler out of the back seat. At bedtime when we discovered they weren’t in the car, and we realized that when Walt put the cooler back in the back seat he neglected to replace the pillows, well, he felt pretty bad, having been forgetful so often lately in his opinion. So I again kept my mouth shut. Second, we were so concerned with getting Walt his double espresso on ice on our way out of Kamiah yesterday morning, we forgot to get a fresh bag of ice for the cooler; consequently, there was no ice left by this morning. Apparently when we drove away from the house we forgot to pack our brains. Reed and I finished off the milk to avoid wasting all that calcium, I tossed out the ketchup and the horseradish (leftovers from the fridge), and put the rest of the stuff in plastic bags and into a spare duffel which I then set in the cool water of the creek. It would be silly to drive 20 miles just for a bag of ice, so we’ll make do.

Anyway, after the stove, pillow, and ice incidents, when the clouds rolled overhead this morning as if to storm, Walt and I looked at each other like, is this trip going to be one thing after another? But then blue sky appeared and the day got hot and sunny as always, and as it turned out we didn’t miss the pillows that much last night anyway. And the stove worked for breakfast.

Last week I dreamed that we were at the airport and I’d forgotten the passports in the dresser drawer at home. (Yes, I have them now, I just checked.) Last night I dreamed we’d gone home to get the bag of ice and some more pillows, and discovered that a thick layer of dust had settled immediately over everything that I’d just cleaned. Then, Walt and Reed came in with their stuff as if to spend the night, spreading things out on the counter and in the bedroom while I scurried around fretting, saying, “No, we can’t spend the night! This place is all clean, we’ve got to get OUT of here!” So waking in the tent to the sound of the river was a relief.

Nights in a tent are long and luxurious, since we go to bed when it gets dark and don’t get up until the sun is well up. You wouldn’t think that after such a night I could possibly lay around all afternoon but indeed I did, after going for a mile long hike along the river after breakfast, and then reading through lunch. I’m reading Simple Cooking by John Thorne, published in 1987, the kind of really good book about food and cooking that makes me wonder what else I missed when I was in college studying the supposed great works of literature. There are some passages in Thorne’s book that beg to be read aloud on a summer evening in bed with someone you love who loves things like clotted cream and strawberries as much as you. Such a communion of tastes ought not to be taken lightly, I realize now. Thorne reminds me that I seemed to have missed James Beard, Waverly Root, and Elizabeth David in my youth as well, although I’ve certainly heard of them and I’ve started trying to catch up, first with Elizabeth David. But who has time for James Beard when there’s still M.F.K. Fisher and Jane Grigson to enjoy?

Reed and Walt returned from their hike around lunchtime too, and we settled next to the river on our private beach for the afternoon, swimming in a deep pool with a sandy bottom behind a large rock when the urge struck, and lying face down on a towel in the sand other times. Reed paddled a little bit after we pointed out to him that he recently learned to swim; we also gave him a safety lesson in river swimming. I wish I could be one of those happy go lucky moms who never pay attention and whose children seem to survive nevertheless, but I’m not. I imagine every little danger, and try to warn him against them.

So many people think of wildlife as big animals but it was a regular nature’s half-acre around here today. Baby fish of all sizes nibbled on our ankles when we stood still in the river, hopefully finding something tasty, or at least to satisfy their curiosity. We spotted a bright red crawdad or crayfish about 6 inches long, looking for all the world like a baby lobster. He fiercely struck out at the stick I poked at him, then moved stealthily away into the shelter of another rock. Then, a snake about 2 feet long swam through Reed’s little pool after catching a fish about 2 inches long. He swam past and then headed back up the bank through the rocks. A pika got into our picnic basket this afternoon and ate half an apple, and in my last swallow of spritzer at lunchtime I got a mouthful of drowned hornet. A few minutes later I was stung on the back of the knee by one of his kin, probably an insect act of revenge. The finale, though, was at supper, when Reed said, “Look! A deer! In the trees!” It took me a full two minutes to find the well-concealed deer; I was fully ready to deal with Reed’s disappointment at having mistaken a log for an animal. But no, it was a deer. Reed is right so often about things it’s a little scary.