We Don't Do Trekking Poles

You know those things you do for fun that really aren't that fun until you get home and tell a bunch of crazy stories, and the look on everyone's face makes it all worth it? And you think that look is admiration, but it's actually pity at how stupid you are? We all do these things. Like running a marathon, watching the Bachelorette, and eating at Beto's in Provo.

Another one of those things for me is backpacking. We started planning a Grange men backpacking trip late last year, and finally made it down to the Sangre de Cristo mountains last week (sans Mountain Dan). It was rainy most of the time, but that didn't deter us from a few harrowing day hikes.

I learned that after ten years, my boots no longer repel water. And if anyone tells me I shouldn't be wearing jeans when camping, but instead should get some breathable, lightweight, moisture-wicking, zip-off pants, I will stick my Swiss Army knife toothpick in your neck.

We reached some stunning alpine lakes that see more marmots and mountain goats than humans.

After dining on the massive beast Spencer wrested from its watery dwelling, we all had a Cup-o-Noodles.

Rules tend to get broken on these campouts. Sticks are poked into the fire and waved around, whittlers cut towards themselves, iodine-treated water with no flavoring is consumed. Another is to identify the steepest, rockiest, trail-less hike, then start walking up it with little concern for the burning lungs and rubbed-raw ankles it will create. We found a few of those.
An excellent time, gents. Let's do it again.