Document text
http://www.omniture.com --> Sections Home Page Local News AP News Archives Business Classifieds Event Calendar Forums Life Opinion Obituaries Photo Gallery Since We Asked Sports Tempo Weather Special Coverage 2006 Britt Festivals --> Shop Our Valley AutoFinder HomeFinder JobFinder Search Our Valley Special Sections Homelife Magazine Joy Magazine Readers Choice 2006 Oregon Golf Info Oregon Wine Info Our Valley Other Publications Local Links Ashland News eSouthernOregon Newspapers In Education Personals Moving Here Movie Listings TV Listings Volunteer Customer Service Advertise With Us Media Kit Place Classified Ad Contact Us FAQ's Home Delivery Site Map --> Email Story to a Friend August 27, 2006 This staffer is a slacker, non-hacker I'm not sure just when it happened, the exact moment I sank lower than pond scum. No, I'm not talking about journalism. I've turned into what my gung ho buddies in the Marine Corps some 35 years ago would have called a non-hacking slacker. They would have spiced up the language a bit, of course. I stumbled over this sad truth during a forced march with my wife, Maureen, and friends Bill and Berta Varble into the southern portion of the Sky Lakes Wilderness during a vacation that ended a week ago today. Most readers will no doubt recognize Bill as the best writer here at the Muddy Tributary. What they may not know is that he — along with Berta and Maureen — is a mad-dog hiker. Advertisement Actually, the hike wasn't bad — on paper. We're talking a half-dozen miles round trip, perhaps a bit more with the bushwhacking forays. The plan was to quick step out the Four Mile Lake trailhead, marching to Squaw Lake where we would spend the night. The next morning would find us hiking around it, then we'd bushwhack to the west end of Four Mile where we would camp again, then double time back to the trailhead. No sweat. But beads of sweat popped out of my forehead the moment I pulled on my backpack, staggering under the load. Maureen had apparently tossed in a watermelon, then kindly added a large anvil for balance. I'm kidding about the anvil. It wasn't large. Maureen patiently observed that her pack was slightly heavier than mine. I countered that, since I'm taller, I have to lift mine a little higher, making it heavier. Fine. She didn't buy it either. But I was loaded for bear with the tent, food, cooking pans, gas stove and an endless array of assorted camping gear. For the first time in my half century of camping, I even included a mat to sleep on. Pathetic. I could almost hear my old jarhead pals Lee Svenvold and Dan Chelius chortling. I lurched down the rocky trail, leaning slightly forward, propelled by the weight. Sweat dripped into my eyes. Still I plunged on. Dust enveloped me. Yet I continued our forced march. I grew as dry as dirt. Finally, I stopped, leaning against a tree while gasping for breath. But my feeling of accomplishment withered when a glance over my shoulder revealed the vehicles were only a mere several hundred feet back down the trail. And far in the distance the mad dogs waited patiently under the mid-day sun. When I attempt to hike, I rely heavily on a white ski pole an old fellow in Alaska gave me in 1986. Made of spring steel, it was among those used by Eskimo Scouts to patrol the northwest coast of the Last Frontier in World War II. While it hasn't exactly put a spring in my step, it has been there for me over the years, taking me on hikes throughout the West. I once trudged — bitching and moaning — behind it to the top of 9,495-foot high Mount McLoughlin under whose north flank I now labored. Given my pole's sharp point, I figure it could be used as a defensive weapon in the event a fearsome creature sprang out of the brush along the trail. But the most ferocious critters we met were a friendly white-haired grandfather and his teenage granddaughter from Medford. They came up from behind, chatted for a moment, then left me in a cloud of dust. An hour later we met the cheerful duo again. They were still in full stride, heading back from the lake. Grandpa had literally walked me into the dirt. But I finally stumbled up to the forested shores of the beautiful lake. Unfortunately, I didn't discover how shallow it was until the next day after an evening and early morning spent fishing. Sunrise revealed a lake far too shallow for fish to survive the harsh winters at nearly 6,000 feet of elevation. I suspect the cackling laughter of a woodpecker filling the nearby woods that morning was not coincidental. I'm just glad the jays didn't hear about the moron fishing in the troutless lake. They can be cruel. Obviously, there were no fish for breakfast. But the pancakes hit the spot, even though we couldn't find any huckleberries to add that special flavor. We forgot a spatula but one carved from a piece of wood served well. From there we would bushwhack north to Four Mile Lake, then east to a peninsula suitable for camping. After a day of battling deadfalls, I was bushed. Even my ski pole looked spent. Maureen and I quietly awakened at first light the next morning. Emerging from our tent, we stepped into a deep silence. A sparkling Venus dangled from a white crescent moon, a stunning scene reflected in the mirror of the silvery lake. Above the silhouette of forested mountains across the lake was a purple horizon hinting of the coming sunrise. Overhead a bluish-black sky still glittered with stars. It was a memorable sight that inspired even this non-hacking slacker. Reach reporter Paul Fattig at 776-4496 or at [email protected] Would you like to respond to this story? If so Click Here to visit our forums. Advertisement Copyright © 1997-2006 Mail Tribune, Inc. All rights reserved. Privacy Policy | Terms & Conditions | Website Feedback online casinos news Home Security Systems California Casinos Men's Clothing Southern Oregon Loans --> GMAT Prep Fundraisers Send Flowers Texas Electric Choice Entertainment Guide --> Casinos Canada Trunks, Footlocker Online Casino Reviews