Okay, bear with me while I wander down memory lane. We just returned from our tenth annual trip to Silver Creek Plunge. I have to go back a few years to build on what my point to this blog is going to be.
I grew up camping—REALLY camping! If it didn’t fit into a backpack and could not be carried into some remote lake then it did not make the trip. Then when we moved to Alaska, camping took on a whole new realm of possibilities. In summer months, there were white water rafting trips, where all the gear was strapped into boats, therefore some luxuries comfortably came with us. Or, after crossing two trams and hiking into a pristinely preserved but abandoned copper mine where we had a cabin, aptly called the Dynamite Shack, we would be at the mercy of the wilderness and its inhabitants. In winter, we had a Shepherd’s tent set up where we mushed our dog teams into and then did loops from there, training ourselves and the dogs. Sleeping at night in North Face bags rated for -60 degrees. If gear could not fit into your sled and be hauled easily, it too was left behind. So you would think I would have all the camping ins and outs cased, right?! Here is my confession:
My first solo trip, twelve years ago, went like this ...
Our first born son was five months old and weighed twenty-four pounds. This small fact will become important soon. My uncle, whom I had grown up with, called to ask if we wanted to go with him and his young girls on a weekend camping trip. He clarified that we would be hiking only about three miles but fording a river a couple of times to get to our destination. Oh, I was in! I asked my husband, he agreed and asked me if I knew what I was getting into, since he had not done a lot of this sort of thing. I assured him that I had it covered; after all, I was a CAMPER! So, we found a backpack, loaded it with the things I could think of, got in our car, and headed to the wilderness.
