[amphioxus]

"Teeth of Larch" Campout at Bethel Ridge, Timberwolf Mountain, October 13 - 15 Well, Mountain Gotee thinketh I should do a slope report, withe loths of quothes. Unfortunately a bunch of the weekend seems to have disappeared in a foggy blur, which is sort of a synopsis in itself. Now, Sunday morning there was fog, about halfway up Bethel Ridge’s cliffs, or clouds, gently whizzing on them what remained at the 5300 foot campsite, standing around the fire, trying to recapture the zest that went with the previous two evening’s inane campfire discussions, but it had a feeling similar to when, in 1971, a girlfriend and I decided we liked riding on the London underground, so rather than get off at our stop, we decided to ride one more time around the Loop. Immediately we were bored, and had to wait another twenty stops. The feeling of moving towards some goal had abandoned us, or we it, and so it was out here in the light rain, as pretty much everybody gave up and went home. If you noticed, this started at the end, by which you will understand that as I am searching foggy gray memory banks back in time, I pretty much had to start at the end and work backwards. See? I’m being logical. Yeah, right. Uh, up there somewhere, I said “everybody.” Attendance. Nine slope dorks, a couple teens with Bill Henley, twenty or twenty-five nwhikers.net personages, including a few little kids. One spitting his marshmallow into the fire pit, telling his mother, “I don’t have feelings.” Weather: Stars Friday night, balmy sun till Sat afternoon, clouded up a bit, sprinkled Sunday morning, turning to light rain. Oh, yeah, gorgeous scenery. Campsite surrounded by 800 feet of cliffs and talus, golden larches. Flying site, Adams, Gote Rocks, and Rainier out, 6391 feet. Well, someone else will have to fill in quotes. The one I half remember was from late Saturday night, around the huge log Mike Zanol had lugged to the fire some hours before, and everyone having a good if slightly inane time. Oh yeah, there are some of the other quotes: “Try some of my R&R.” “Try some of my LaFroig.” “Try some of my Southern Comfort.” And Damian saying something to the effect that he’d rather drink a bucket of urine than do something or other more unpleasant, which must have taken superb imagination, tho I don’t remember what it was that he’d rather not do (anyone?), and which promptly got him a fair amount of attention, and people trying to quote what he said, but missing, and someone says, “That’s not what he said,” and misquoting him again, so I said, “As official unofficial quotemaster, it's my responsibility to accuarately report that what he did say was, ‘I like to drink urine.’” And that was at about midnight Saturday, when I gave it up and wandered off to snooze. Quote, away from fire: “Persons who have been to Eastern Seaboard finishing schools usually are trained in starting meaningful conversations. They come prepared with a list of subjects. They’ll make a short statement, such as, ‘The recent pre-election drop in oil-prices per barrel should temporarily give the economy a boost.’ And then they’ll ask a question, skillfully designed to draw others into the conversation, such as, ‘How do you reflect this situation in your management of your stock portfolio?’ We could use such similar approaches, to elevating the level of discussion around Mike Zanol’s logs.” Oh, yeah, and there was the group reading the notes from the canister that also held a 35mm film vial of Ed’s ashes, reportedly very competent climber, but he apparently died in a difficult traverse? after the canister got passed around and someone amphi poured a dash of whiskey on it, old Irish tradition, though not strained through me kidneys first, and the group across who found all the carrying on about Ed a little disrespectful, and, “At a memorial it isn’t just perfect, but everyone being who they are.” Death casts big reflections. Saturday up on Timberwolf, at one point there were nine planes in the air, scooting off toward Adams, turning back in formation, silhouetted just above the peak, aiming for us. Fine medium lift. Mtngoat” “Philip, you must be our Safety Officer.” That cuz Philip kept aiming his Boommerang straight at the group of us and veering up at the last moment. Mtngoat’s coworker Jay brought along a two meter balsa floater to destroy. It flew great. MtnGoteQuote: “It flew great, till I went into a dive, and it wanted to tuck under.” Toothpicks. “You could have pushed it all the way under, into an outside loop.” “I didn’t think that fast.” “What is that smell?” “Forest can be downwind and his breath still smells like someone stepped in something.” “He must have eaten something dead.” “Gawd, how can it be that strong?” Erik and Mike Daily soldering connections on Philip’s Chinook’s receiver. Chinook in air, zips all over, uncontrollable loops, blows back behind hill, Philip brings it in for the smoothest and gentlest landing. Sets the dual-rates way lower. Flies okay, but with occasional pops straight up. I think the control linkage was binding, carbon flexing, then popping. Maybe Tx. Flying upside down, augers in. Broke linkage off elevon. Ran Boomerang into tree, stripped servo gear. Bill Henley, Past Post Partum Presidentum de SASS (Seattle Area Slope Dorks) flew his twelve-foot flying wing. He explained that this winter he will stiffen up the wings. The wingtips seemed to stay in one place, while the middle flopped up and down three or four feet. Kept flying. Bill is patenting the device as a new approach to ornithoptery. Friday night, Mike Zanol and Philip rolled the first of the two big stumps onto the campfire. 2.5 feet in diameter, as long. Burned till four in the morning. I know. Mike kept saying, “You gotta stay up till it burns down to coals.” Quote, next morning, about ten: “I finished this gallon of water!” I was trying to flush my system. If you’re going to play, you gotta pay. Friday night, Tom and a bunch of nwhikers.net: “Let’s set our alarms for five o’clock!” “Oh, boy, we get to get up at five o’clock and go scrambling.” “Oh boy, it’s twelve miles!” We didn’t see them again till the next evening, and then briefly. Some peak they decided was too dangerous to actually ascend. But it is very Buddhist to be at peace with where you are. Saturday: “The Sheetrock [Six-foot flying wing] sure is way down there.” “Why doesn’t he just turn it into the hill?” “He’s looking for lift. He wants to work it back up.” “There he went up, a little.” “Do you see about where it went?” MtnGoat: “Are you ready to go for a walk?” “Can you hear its beeper?” “It’s okay.” Stalwart (well, probably has warts, anyway) Amp returns up scree with Sheetrock and the coolest spiral of silver-grey wood, hollow. Shows it to everyone, back at camp. Quark: “I’m jealous. That would complete my dowry.” Summary: Good times had by all. Forest barking at another dog. Packing up, Sun. morn, Forest rolling in the dirt road, happily caked with mud. Mountain Goat groaning, “You are going to ride in back, on a tarp.” MtnGote sets off to drive ridge rim.

[seawallrunner]

“Try some of my LaFroig.” I missed this?? Darn.

[Magellan]

All timer!! I'm sorry I could not go.

[ActionBetty]

Hi Phil great TR! Who has the pictures of Forest all muddy?

[Tazz]

here we go

great read! thanks

[shiznit75]

Forest was one dirty dog! Awesome TR

[amphioxus]

Quothes: Re: "Try some of my LaFroig." --Mike Zanol. "I sipped it, and my head filled with images of chocolate truffles. I must like it." Well, duh.