Apr 3, 2011

The assault on Bomber Mountain - 10, mullets and marmots at Mistymoon

Tuesday, August 29 - Migrating to Mistymoon Lake

2:00 am: "Beard, Beard, wake up, look the sky!" Sherpa was bleating like goat from his tent.  I groggily entered the night freeze, craned up and couldn't believe my eyes.  Zero haze to muffle the light show, it was HD astronomy.  

The commotion stirred Fish, he attempted to exit his tent and join us.  Didn't have his bearings yet, was wobbly in the legs and the tent was pitched on a slight incline.  He stepped out and lost his balance, which triggered an elaborate Shawn Johnson floor routine consisting of windmills, near falls, swaying hips and "Whoa, whoa, whaos!"  He couldn't quite pull it together and finally performed a shattering 10.0 belly flop squarely on his tent.  

It popped like a balloon.  Instantly flat, poles and all.  

Sherpa and I did our best to repress guffaws.  I thought the tent was dead, but as soon as we pulled him off, the thing went JA-BIP! and snapped up perfectly.  That Fish Flop happened five years ago, we still laugh about it today.

I moved the temp gauge inside my REI dome and took a reading.  32 is not terrible, but is certainly "refreshing" when trying to sleep, with the metabolism crawling while sawing logs and my drool puddle freezing into a small skating rink.

Up and Adam at 6:30 am.  I stayed warm last night, didn’t shiver with mummy layers rolled on.  Fish and I cooked up a sweltering batch of hot cocoa and oatmeal for breakfast. Anything with steam rising hit the spot.  We watched the elk play as the sun poked, took pictures, pumped water, washed dishes (Sherpa hated life when it was his turn to wash them, said he was used to his wife doing them), then dismantled camp.  Efficient, we folded camp into backpacks in 20 minutes.  

Mistymoon Lake, onward!

Had this in my journal for the day: 
There's a clear and present battle waging between hairy pits and the Old Spice Endurance Pure Sport deodorant.  On day two, the battle commenced, with the Old Spice maintaining a slight victory. The combatants pulled to a draw on day three, and today, the pits waved their stink flag high in the air. 

The pull of gravity was slowly losing control over my hair.  I could feel it turning wild up there and going to seed.  It was mulletizing.  At least Fish and Sherpa looked and smelled equally bad.  So it all balanced out, a wash.

The two-mile trip to Mistymoon Lake was a little tougher than yesterday since we were packing hobo style today.  

Above, the distant mountain left of center is Cloud Peak.  We intend to climb it later this year.
Slip on your monocle to spot Sherpa and Fish below.  The landscape swallowed us.

We pulled into Mistymoon Lake at noon, this would be base camp for the rest of the trip.  Looked and looked, couldn't find even a single Starbucks.  

You've seen Caddyshack, right?  Bill Murray bleeds unrestrained rage towards a gopher that wrecks havoc on his golf course.  And you've played the whack-a-mole game at Check E. Cheese, bobbing the daylights out of plastic gopher heads with a fat foam mallet?  Well, it was kind of like watching the movie while playing the game as we built camp. 

Lightheaded from blowing up my air mattress, I noticed a friendly coarse-haired critter, a marmot, eying us (marmot = obese mountain gopher).  Our new friend, Martha, didn't seem nervous around us, she casually circled the perimeter sizing us up.  A little later, I was reading in the tent and could hear the sounds of scurrying rodent.  Spying out the tent flap, a few inches away was a hairy leg with sharp claws.  Martha was panhandlin' for a hamburger, wanting a free handout. 

"Get outta here, skedaddle, scat, you filthy yellow bellied marmot!!" I shouted as I sprang towards it, armed with the corkscrew attachment on my Leatherman multi-tool.  

Probably looked like the loud pistol-totin', handle-bar-mustached sheriff on Bugs Bunny.  Martha yawned, scratched her nose and slowly waddled away.  No fear of humans, unbelievable!  It appeared hikers have been hand feeding this ratball since birth, she would have nudged in beside me for a nap if I'd fed her a bowl of shrimp ramen.

Fish and Sherpa watched this unfold from their tent, they thought it was hilarious.  Until Martha turned and headed to their tent.  She lumbered up to Fish, rocked back on her butt and begged for scraps.  Fish's face tightened, wasn't smiling as much when rabi'-beast was messing with his casa.  He sprung to his feet and battle charged towards Martha.  

She jumped once and squeaked, turned and took her time wobbling away.  Fish chucked a rock and missed.  Martha climbed up on a boulder and belted out a long tirade of swears.  Now I don’t speak fluent marmot yet, but I’m confident she was using some salty language up there.  We were half expecting she'd grab her marmot buddies and flank us that night, sneaking Nutter Butters and Crystal Light lemon chasers. 

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thanks for the note, check back for my response!