Now for the account of my Mount Charleston trip. After sleeping off the effects of the Bauhaus trip, my friend Chuck says “let’s go camping.” Of all things in the world, can you see me camping? He was leaving right at that moment, so I had to make a snap decision. I said yes without really knowing what I was getting myself in to. I haven’t been camping since I was in 5th grade or so, and then it was under strong protest. Chuck has two friends in from the Midwest someplace and they are used to camping so that’s what the plans are. I grab my sleeping bag and ice chest, hoping my leather jacket will be warm enough but not thinking far enough ahead to check the weather or anything useful like that. We get firewood and some small provisions from a gas station before heading up the mountain. Being such a homebody, I don’t even know where the mountain is. I’ve been to Lake Mead a handful of times with friends, but I don’t really leave this city unless it’s to go to Los Angeles or San Francisco. Okay so I suck, but I went anyway. Packed in the back of a van, we blaze a trail into the nothing. It was almost dark when we found a campground. It was technically closed, but there weren’t any gates or anything so we lit a fire and settled in at over 8000 feet. I had no idea we were going to be up so high or what the effects would be. Of course, I hadn’t eaten. From what I know now, you need to carb up before attempting those sorts of treks. After setting up the tent, we sat around the fire, just chatting for a few hours over some of Chuck’s home brew and some other booze we’d brought along. I started getting really cold and dizzy from the thin atmosphere. My companions talked about their camping in forty-below blizzards and such. “Insane” is all I can think of. In my frozen insanity, I think of my guinea pigs and bird, sitting at home alone in a nice seventy-degree town house. My cell phone only blinks “no signal” at me. I don’t remember going to sleep; but then I seldom do. Waking up, on the other hand, I remember all too clearly. I tried to drink some water, but I just threw it up. Puking is bad enough, but the freezing cold and altitude hammered in the brutality of the world that much more. We gathered some firewood. Firewood? What sort of world am I in? They pass around some bean soup, warmed by the fire. I wouldn’t normally have eaten, but they tell me this super secret that carbohydrates help with altitude sickness. A few bites in my stomach helps tremendously. A Hispanic family gets jostled early by some rangers. The rangers accuse them of setting up an illegal camp ground; the spot they picked wasn’t a part of the regular camp but had been put together long before that family picked the spot. Since the campground is technically closed we’re worried about getting a ticket as well so we make a rapid egress. Dizzy and still somewhat sick, the rapid decent back to the real world is overwhelming. They wanted me to go back today, but I declined. It’s probably even colder.

When I get around to it, I’ll write about my adventures in babysitting for my honey, the clogged sink, and then last night’s adventure in Beaujolais and quiche with an old friend.