A Beautiful Living Room

Leaky Tent. Soaked sleeping bag. Visible breath.

It was 3:00 A.M. I had been trying to fall asleep for maybe two hours, and at that point I was just praying for sunrise.

It's no stretch to say that the annual "Mantrip" was off to a rocky start. Let's start at the beginning of that day.

We woke Wednesday morning in my brother's new home in Amarillo in quite a melancholy mood. A torrent of rain that night had created quite a washout on his property, which, with more storms forecasted, threatened to worsen in the following days.

Undeterred, we loaded up the pickup trucks like the Beverly Hillbillies, only without Granny on the rocking chair, and headed west. The trip itself was uneventful, and by the time crossed the border into Colorado, spirits were high. We made camp at 10,000 feet on a beautiful spot overlooking the Conejos River some 300 feet below. Gazing at the river, one of us happened to look up at a mountain obscured by an omnious rainstorm that was heading our way.

The original plan was to set up camp, then run down the hill to fly fish the evening green drake hatch. Setting up included a gazebo with walls for food storage and preparation, a modefied fire ring (hourglass shaped for a bonfire and for cooking,) a big canvas tent with air mattresses, cots and such, a shower tent, and finally a latrine tent. Now it takes about two hours to set up camp by the book. We didn't have that much time.

We worked fast and nearly managed to set up the essentials before the clouds let loose. We took shelter in the trucks and waited for the lightning to abate. It soon became evident that the rain was not going to let up, so we got out and worked through it like real men, not complaining about being soaked.

About 9:00 that night, after not doing any fishing, we saw upon entering the canvas tent that the treated material was leaking, and that our bedding was getting soaked. We had planned on getting out of our wet clothes and into a dry bed, but it now became apparent that we needed a tarp. Amazingly enough, six grown men who had made numerous trips to the mountains all forgot to bring one. So my brother and I headed down the road about an hour away to see if a friend had one at his cabin. When we got back to camp without a tarp, we found out that there had been more problems.

The tent stove got a bit too hot and burned the tarp we were using for a floor. It was also giving off a poisonous odor from the lacquer finish being burned off which made one of our friends sick. It had to be dragged out of the tent with a pair of pliers. Without the heat of the stove in the tent, it got very cold that night. Now we're back to the beginning of this story.

So what is so fun about camping out in the mountains? This question has permeated my thinking since that night. The fishing was good, the weather did improve, and we managed to stay dry the rest of the trip, but that couldn't replace that fact that I had a perpetual case of altitude sickness, I smelt like a campfire, I was exhausted, and I hadn't showered since I left Amarillo. Aside from the discomfort, it was easy to become soured after that first night. Finally on the last evening, it hit me.

I had just finished taking pictures of the setting sunlight on the top of the mountains when I sat down in my camp chair. The fire was stoked and we friends all took our turns poking sticks at the burning logs on the fire as the stars, all billion of them, came out for the first time that trip. I had somehow forgotten that I go for the simplicity of it all. We sat around the fire and cracked jokes in the most beautiful living room God could have created.