Catfish in the woods

We’d crawled out of the soaked tents into the foggy morning, packed and loaded all the gear away, hopped and started back down Mount Graham – at 8:30 a.m. the thermometer in the car read 37.
We were at 8,000 feet, in the middle of March, but it sounded like a great idea the week leading up, which included a shorts-and-flip-flops day at the ball park.
Arizona camping in late winter can be a tough bet sometimes, but damn if the snow, rain and cold didn’t even register as an inconvenience. For me, the weather simply made the camping trip substantially more interesting. It’d been years and there’s so much to the experience that a little chill ain’t gonna faze me.
For one thing we settled on one of the better spots I’ve ever seen. None of the five us had been to Mount Graham before, so the destination wasn’t even settled until we got there. We were far enough off the main road to not be visible and there was already one hell of a fire pit, dug well out and bordered by a wall of rocks, not just a simple circle.
I brought my saw, and the General sawed. And sawed and sawed. He likes to saw, and kept saying so.
One Good Arrow (as we came to call the somewhat crazy Army veteran) was obsessed not with sawing, or the fire even, but with constructing a bow. And, rather than fill a quiver with decent arrows, he set out to carve the One Good Arrow.
Blue was in rare form, as was Mrs. One Good Arrow.
Friday night started snowing, light at first, but by the time I’d decided to turn in, the swirling winds were blowing big fat flakes all around. The flames were blown haphazardly, sending smoke in everyone’s eyes all too often.
Saturday was great, tromping all around and marveling at nature. There was a light rain, but nothing enough to chase anybody running back to camp to the tents or cars. There was hiking, sitting and talking, and at last, feasting. The feasting lasted pretty much through and through.
The entire camping trip was incredible. I got to explore an entirely new mountain, stretch my legs and lungs in the mountain air – an experience all too rare these last few years living in the Sonoran Desert. We were above the clouds, surrounded by misty darkness even during the height of day. Sure it was cold, but it’s a better story because of it. The pines breathe better in the mist anyway, and they’re the center of the experience.
And at night there’s little better in the world to do than sit around a camp fire.
The pavilion collapsed, we endured snow and hours of completing if not damaging rain, the cold always beat the toes into submission and there were notable absences in the ranks. But it was a weekend of high achievement, memorable when such was sorely needed. And I pledge to not wait years before camping again.