For Better or Worse

• Posted on December 6, 2009 at 1:42 PM
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For Better or Worse And other vows of shared suffering.

“What is to give light must endure burning” ~ Viktor Frankl ~

I am lying on my back, eyes wide open, watching the roof of the tent slowly lighten with the coming dawn. I am not alone in this tent, oh no, far from it. Lying with her still damp head on my feet is Taylor the golden retriever. Her similarly soggy compatriot, Rieley the Wonder Dog - still feeling somewhat shaken by the thunderstorm that pounded us for most of the night - pants nervously and very directly, into my face. His breath only slightly less offensive than the aroma of wet dog that permeates the tent.

Propping myself up on one elbow I look over my shell-shocked pooch to an uncomfortable looking form crowded up against the far wall of the tent. It is my wife Lorrie. She too is awake. I know because only moments ago she woke me and asked me to roll over. This, in a futile attempt to stop the snoring that she swears I have been doing all night. This of course I know is impossible, as I have not yet slept a wink.

Lying back down, I burrow deeper into my sleeping bag and wonder at my good fortune in finding a mate as amazingly tolerant as the one laying just on the other side of the wet dog. Not many women would willingly endure the “fun” we have had in the last 24 hours. I mean, just as she promised when she uttered those vows some 27 years ago, she has stuck by me for better or worse, for richer - for poorer, in sickness and in health. No where in there however, does it say anything about mosquitoes.

Suddenly I am shaken from my reverie by a not so gentle nudge. “Dan, please roll over; you’re snoring again.” Of course I know she is mistaken, as I am not asleep yet. I humour her anyways, turning on my side and away from the locomotive breath of my traumatized dog.

This trip was to be a second honeymoon of sorts. In our youth, together we had hiked, backpacked and skied into many of the backcountry’s wild places. Then came the responsibilities of earning a living, maintaining a home, rearing children, and our priorities changed. Mind you, I was still passionate about being outdoors and continued to find solace there whenever the opportunity arose, but Lorrie’s focus changed. She had reached a stage in her life where her motivations were no longer as egocentric, or hedonistic. Those in the know call this stage of maturation, adulthood. Luckily for me I have not yet reached that selfless plateau and seem to be in no danger of attaining it anytime soon. And so it was, with children grown and our domestic situation stable, that I convinced my long time sweetheart to once again come outside and play.

Our destination was the Diorite, a place of flower-strewn meadows, waterfalls, and alpine tarns; a little bit of heaven tucked at the eastern foot of Teepee Mountain. Lorrie had heard all about this treasure from my previous travels there, but had never witnessed it herself. So after a long drive on a rough road we found ourselves at the trailhead struggling to shoulder our packs.

Well, at least some of us where struggling. Lorrie slipped into hers easily enough, I on the other hand was having some difficulty. You see I had decided to do the chivalrous thing and carry everything except Lorrie’s sleeping bag and her clothes, to ensure her pack was as light as I could make it.

The weakness in this plan was that although my good wife was carrying a very comfortable pack, she was now forced to wait frequently for her over loaded Sherpa/husband to stagger up the hill behind her. These pauses in motion left her vulnerable to clouds of bloodthirsty mosquitoes, no see ums, and horse flies. This of course greatly decreased her level of patience for her plodding but gallant life mate. By her tone, I could tell she wanted less gallantry and more bug spray.

Even the pups suffered at the hands – or should I say the proboscises’ - of these flying blood siphoners. Unwilling to douse the dogs in DEET due to the possible toxic effect it might have on them, (my wife and children maybe, but never on my precious pets), the pooches resorted to sticking their heads in the shrubbery to rake the pests from their ears and muzzles.

When I finally caught up to my wife at the top of the last long steep stretch I told her, “From here on it starts to open up. With any luck there should be a decent breeze up there to blow these *#@%ing things away.” As it turned out, I was right. As it turned out, I should have been careful what I wished for.

With a fresh breeze now keeping the bugs at bay and black clouds boiling in the southwest, we hurriedly began to set up camp on a rocky little knoll that overlooked an idyllic mountain pond. I dumped my pack on the ground, and began sorting out the gear I would need to erect the tent and rig a tarp.

This process did not go as smoothly as I had hoped, mostly due to the fact that every time I turned around to find an essential item, say like, the tent pegs, they would be gone from where I had left them. It seems my somewhat order- obsessed wife kept taking said items and organizing them in colour-coded piles a good distance from the tent site. While I agree this made for a much tidier camp, it also had the effect of shortening the temper of the tent-putter-upper. Luckily, before harsh words could be exchanged, our fresh little breeze turned into a hurricane force wind, motivating us to turn our attentions to more pressing matters, like survival. Eventually, we got the tent up and our sleeping gear unrolled safely inside it. This done, we took shelter beneath our hurriedly erected but amazingly effective tarp, to wait out the storm.

It turned out to be a bit of a wait. When the winds finally abated (allowing the parasitic vermin one last chance for a feeding frenzy), the rain began. Then the clouds, which had taken on the colours of a bad three-day-old bruise, split open and spewed marble sized hail, lightning, and dog traumatizing thunder, down upon us.

It was right about then that Lorrie asked, “Could you slip down to the creek and get some water so I can start supper?” I looked at her in stunned silence. She smiled back and added, “Oh, and don’t forget to use the filter. We don’t want any intestinal issues because of bad water.”

At least I think that was what she said. It was difficult to hear her over the incessant blasts of thunder. Regardless, I gathered up the water purifier, several pots and pans, and headed out alone into the maelstrom. My usually loyal dogs did not even lift their heads to watch me go.

The inlet stream that fed the pond below camp was essentially a series of small waterfalls that cascaded down through the wild flowers. Walt Disney could not have imagined a more idyllic scene. It was, I thought at first, as perfect as it could be. Then I saw the beverages, a half dozen of them scattered near the edge of the stream, all proclaiming themselves to be “the king” of that particular manner of beverage.

Through divine intervention, the powers that be had succeeded in kicking perfection up a notch.

I approached said beverages with disbelief in my heart. If it seems too good to be true…? But no, this was not some kind of thunder-induced delusion, there they were, their pop-tops intact. And by the haphazard placement and the faded colouration of the cans, it was obvious that these sudsy libations had been here a while. That in turn indicated that their original owner had abandoned them and thus held no legal authority as to who might consume them.

Thirsty and unwilling to look a gift brew in the mouth, I popped, sniffed, and then sipped. It was cold, bubbly, and except for a slight hint of Pepe Le Pew that lingered on the palate, quite drinkable.

The first one was gone before I returned to Lorrie with the water.

My good wife did not share my excitement over the discovery of the six (well five now) little kings. She instead turned her attention to the preparation of dinner and in less than half an hour had produced a culinary masterpiece; Shrimp fettuccini with fresh cream and basil, a Caesar salad, and a light and fluffy, fresh baked bannock. All this prepared on a single burner stove under a hail-lashed tarp while enduring a barrage of thunderbolts.

It may have been some time since Lorrie backpacked with me, but this woman – who shot her first bear when she was 12 – is still extremely comfortable and capable in the bush. I wondered if her co-workers knew that the lady in the office down the hall, the one who prefers to dress in business suits and silk scarves, not only has a lightning fast calculator hand, but could also skin a cougar in the dark.

By the time supper was over the temperature had dropped by 14 degrees Celsius. Before the storm hit, we had been sweating it out in a humid 23 degrees, but now in the fading light of evening it stood at only plus nine. The dogs, whom own not a stitch of Gore Tex, were wet from their frequent forays out from under the tarp and had begun to shiver. I dug out my space blanket, (a silvery, foil like sheet used to reflect body back at the user), from my survival kit where it had resided since 1980. Turns out that space blankets, at least ones of that vintage, kind of weld themselves together after 30 years or so. It took some time, but Lorrie and I eventually got the thing peeled apart enough to cover Rieley and Taylor. Two, not-so-hot dogs, wrapped in foil. Kind of goofy looking, but the pups, who have never been slaves to fashion, didn’t seem to mind. They were warmer now, so best dressed list be damned.

Once all the chores were done, our gear stored, and our food safety hung up in a tree, Lorrie and I decided that we might as well turn in. It was warm and dry in the tent, and if we got a good nights rest and the weather cooperated, we could get an early start in the morning. The dogs thought this was a good idea too and slipped out from under their space blanket to go and stand in front of the tent door, tails a wagging, waiting to be let in.

Four bodies in a two man tent is a bit of an intimate arrangement, but after a little gentle encouragement and some vigorous pushing and shoving, each of us found our niche. With the stillness of the night broken only by the gentle sound of the rain on the tent and Rieley's panicked puffing, we waited for sleep to come.

If I had been asleep, it would have been the growling that woke me up. However, since I hadn’t yet slept a wink, I must have been wide-awake when I heard it. Sitting up I fumbled my headlamp on and in its blinding beam saw dog Taylor, her hackles raised, growling into back vestibule of the tent.

Now for those who have never camped with dogs, let me explain something. If your dog begins growling into the blackness of the night, there is with out a doubt, something out there. In thirty-five years my canine companions have never, not ever, been wrong about the presence of an interloper in camp. The only question that remains to be answered is what exactly is out there; is it a gopher or a grizzly bear? In your dogs mind, they have done their job by simply alerting you to the trespasser. Assessing the actual potential for danger is a human responsibility.

Taylor glanced quickly in my direction and then back to the vestibule as if to say, “Hey, you Homo sapiens are the ones with the opposable thumbs and higher functioning intellect, get out there and investigate.”

I hate that part.

Once out in the drizzling darkness, Taylor indicated that I should concentrate my search on a pile of gear stored at the back of the tent. This was some what reassuring because I was pretty sure a grizzly would have a hard time hiding under a pile that small. Lorrie joined me in the rain and held the dogs’ collars lest they take it upon themselves to tangle with what ever pointy-toothed or quilled beasty that was rummaging through our gear.

Reaching down, I grabbed one of the packs by the harness and in one swift motion, lifted it from the pile. There, blinking its large dark eyes into the glare of my headlamp was a very rotund, Bushy Tailed Wood Rat, aka the Pack Rat. The dogs growled, I said a bad word, and the rat ran into the night leaving only the pungent musk of his urine to indicate he had ever really been there at all.

Lorrie escorted the dogs back into the tent before they could pursue the little villain and get muddier in the process, while I lugged the gear out of the vestibule, down the trail to where we had hung our food. I lowered the bag down, tied the gear onto the rope, and hauled for all I was worth. This strenuous effort seemed to offend the several little kings that now residence in my digestive tract, as they suddenly made a mad dash for the exit.

After an urgent but successful intermission, I returned to camp and on my way, glanced at my watch; it was 2:30 a.m.

The rest of the night passed with out incident, unless of course you count the times that the little kings repeatedly burbled their discontent over their confinement or when Lorrie woke me to tell me she thought she heard the rat return. I explained to her that there was nothing to worry about. The rat wouldn’t be coming back any time soon as the only thing still left in the vestibule were my hiking poles and they certainly wouldn’t be of any interest to him.

When I come awake, (Okay, so I finally did doze off), the roof of the tent is lit up by the morning sun and there is the sound of snoring coming from my left. At first I think it is Lorrie, but just as I begin to enjoy the thought of waking her, I realize it is Rieley. I slide out of my bag, unzip the tent, and emerge into glorious sunshine. The rest of the team follows suit, and after a delicious breakfast of left over bannock, warmed in a fry pan and smothered in my wife’s homemade crab apple jelly, we head out to explore the surrounding alpine. Before we leave, I retrieve my poles from the vestibule and immediately notice that the wrist straps are missing. Mr. Rat it seems had an interesting breakfast as well.

We make our way over the pass into Diorite proper to a small lake surrounded by wild flowers. The dogs roam about, sniffing and wagging, while I take photos and my sleep deprived wife lays down amongst the Indian Paint brush and closes her eyes.

She must feel my gaze upon her because she opens her eyes and smiles. “Thanks for bringing me,” she says. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. After all the trials and tribulations of the last days she still is able to appreciate this moment.

I watch as she lays back amongst the blosoms and again closes her eyes. I can’t help but wonder, is she remembering the camaraderie of the night before, or is she devising a plan to organize this chaos of wildflowers into neat, colour coded rows.