It's not uncommon for me to go camping with the lads in February.
Cabin fever, lack of bugs, test of manliness, call it what you want.
In Georgia, February can range from down right balmy to freezing your nuts off.
This trip, had it come a week earlier, would have been the former,
but things being what they were, produced the later.
Quite possibly the coldest day of this winter.
Temps around 14 degrees, with howling winds.
Take-A-Tree-Down kind of winds.
The wind chill undoubtedly below 0.
But we soldiered on and found ourselves in the woods, bushwhacking and
fording streams, bare foot with jeans rolled up for the crossing. Water warmer than air.
Making camp and cooking Caldillo (a mexican stew). From scratch, of course.
Peeling and slicing onions, chilies, and cilantro, mincing garlic, while trying to keep your hands from freezing.
Then the wait. Several hours of stewing, while we drank and smoked cigars. Burning copious amounts of downed wood just to keep from freezing.
I brought my concertina. A first. And though probably not the last,
it was most difficult to play the darn things when my fingers wouldn't work.
I don't think I can remember a camping trip without our dear friend Grover.
Indeed, the trip was planned to a spot named "Grover's Bridge."
A destination we never made. But that's another story.
There was a conspicuous hole around the fire without him there.
Items of note:
Dozens of signs reading "No Camping Here" and "Bear Activity in the Area"
All summarily ignored.
A restless night of arctic cold, howling winds, and unconfirmed "sniffing" around my tent.
Rick distracting the locals with hypnotic gazing. The Statue of Liberty, tax guy that nearly turned an ankle. The dude on a ATV that nearly lost control. There may have been others.
In the end I think the trip will like a fine wine, improve with age.
Time away from the hardships will soften the sting, and the memories of a hard night endured together surely bonds men together.
View Back Way to Grover's Bridge in a larger map
