Now that Arnold and I had established our credentials as backpackers by completing an arduous four mile round trip trek in an Oklahoma park, we were ready for the real thing; the Mt. Zirkel Wilderness just east of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. On a September afternoon at the Tulsa fairgrounds, we met up with our group that was to travel via two buses. Packs were stowed in the luggage compartment with mine having been pared down to the merest of necessities. My Oklahoma experience taught me that a backpack full of camera lenses becomes quiet heavy, similar to cans of beer, when toted for long distances. I had cut my photo inventory down to two lenses, a 28-85 and a 100-300. Surely that would cover most of my photo needs. The need for beer would have to be suppressed.

However, much to our delight, we discovered that the trip leader had lovingly and thoughtfully supplied two huge coolers full of our favorite beverage and placed in the back of the bus. The beer sacrifice would be delayed until we reached our destination. The buses were unlike any I had seen before. The seats sat café style with a small table in the middle; great for playing cards and having a place to set your beer. The seats could also be converted into beds. It was with happy faces and soaring spirits that we left the hot, paved parking lot of the flatlands and set out for glorious cool mountains with pristine streams and waterfalls. New and inspiring landscapes to capture on film and rejuvenate the creative mind lie ahead of us. This was gonna be great.

Of the approximate 25 fun loving souls on board, at least 24 were hitting the brewskis with enthusiastic regularity. The driver fortunately abstained. Luckily the bus had a bathroom, one bathroom. This one bathroom, a very popular one I might add, sported a line at the door with an average at any one time of around five foot tapping, eye-rolling, teeth grinding, visibly in pain, soon-to-be backpackers. Using this tiny facility while barreling down the Interstate at 75 miles an hour required a fair amount of balance and agility, skills not readily available after massive consumption of the aforementioned brewskis. Holding tanks for the buses proved woefully inadequate and I'll spare the details here, but it did get ugly...and messy...and nasty. As for the ladies; I felt your pain.

We arrived at the entrance of the Mt. Zirkel wilderness at mid-morning with the predictable hangover but the cool mountain air quickly cleared our heads and we were ready to strap on the packs. A quick stop at a sporting goods store allowed Arnold to get a fishing license and buy some bait - salmon eggs - little round red balls about twice the size of a BB.

"We're gonna catch trout", Arnold announced as he proudly showed me his tiny, collapsible fishing pole. "It'll be a mountain man meal that will melt in your mouth." I had flashbacks to the frog legs and cattail roots fiasco back in Oklahoma. Confidence was not high.

About a mile up the mountain, some new facts became painfully clear. Hiking in Oklahoma at an elevation of six hundred feet was an entirely different matter than packing 50 lbs at over 9000 ft. For one thing there was no air to breathe, none. Then there was the matter of constantly going uphill, a grade similar to that of a playground slide. This was not a flatlander trail worn smooth by city tourists in shorts and tennis shoes. This was rough, rock strewn, tree rooted, ankle twisting country magnified by the weight of the pack growing by the minute and now estimated at two hundred pounds. I gave serious consideration to throwing the heaviest lens down the side of the mountain.

At last, we came upon some reasonably level ground and Arnold declared this to be our campsite. We had lost sight of the other backpackers hours ago.

"We need to erect our tent away from the trail," he said. "It'll have some privacy and we won't be bothered by other hikers going up and down." Made sense to me.

We got the tent up, arranged the sleeping pads, and settled in to rest and to fantasize about the cold beverages we'd left in the back of the bus. But Arnold was anxious to try his fishing skills and he soon found a stream not far from our camp. It did not look promising to me. Instead of a tranquil, calm brook, where tasty fishes leisurely swam in quiet pools, this was a torrent, a gusher. The water rushed down, over, and around the boulders like it had been inspired by Niagara Falls. Surely trout would not inhabit such a maelstrom much less bite on a goofy looking pink egg. Arnold was not deterred, throwing cast after cast.

"You're the fisherman," I said. "I'm going to take this camera that I foolish hauled up this stupid mountain and shoot some photos." Surprisingly, as I became accustomed to the altitude and without those 400 lbs on my back, it became a rather pleasant experience. It was quite relaxing really, wandering down the peaceful trail, stopping now and then to photograph a mushroom or wildflower. No other backpacker, or for that matter, anyone at all, came along to destroy the bliss. Unfortunately, there were not as many photo opportunities as I had envisioned. In Bill Bryson's great book "A Walk in the Woods", where he hikes the Appalachian Trail, the author describes his disappointment at the lack of breathtaking vistas. Instead, he relays, all you can see are trees, lots of trees, and the trail, for miles and miles and miles. And that was my feeling as the light began to fade toward evening and I headed back to camp with only a few photos.

There was just one thing; I couldn't find the camp! When I came to a stream, probably the same one Arnold was fishing; I realized I hadn't crossed any water since I'd left the tent. Not good. There were bound to be bears around, maybe cougars. It was gonna get cold and the only thing I had with me was a camera. I thought about taking a self portrait before my fingers froze off. They could run it in the Steamboat Springs newspaper, The Pilot, along with the headline. "CLUELESS OKLAHOMA BACKPACKER DIES WITHIN 24 HOURS AFTER ENTERING WOODS."

Retracing my steps and cussing Arnold for putting the camp so far off the trail, I hadn't gone but a quarter mile or so when I saw a small pillar of smoke wafting its way through the treetops, a campfire. Bless Arnold and his big ol' mountain man heart; I was not only saved form a horrible death by exposure but from hunger as well. Arnold, you see, had fresh trout in the frying pan. It was the most delicious meal I've ever had, then or since.

I found that it takes about three days of being in the mountains before one can truly begin to relax, enjoy it, and quit worrying about the tent, the weather, or if you brought enough toilet paper. By then, you've accepted that it's going be chilly at night, the sleeping pad is not as comfortable as the mattress back home, and the freeze dried food leaves something to be desired. The experience of solitude, peacefulness, and sitting around the fire, looking up at a magnificent night sky so clear and full of stars that it's breathtaking, far outweighs a few physical discomforts. It had been well worth the expense, the bus ride with the stinky bathroom, and the sore feet. I loved it.

On the last day and with a somewhat smug feeling of having conquered the elements, Arnold and I headed down the mountain to meet up with the other backpackers. On the way, I spotted some particularly attractive wildflowers and needing a break, shed the pack, and got on my knees looking for some sort of composition through the viewfinder. Suddenly, the frame was filled, not with wildflowers, but something unusual; something large, brown, and furry. My eye processed this new visual information in the regular manner, through the lens, iris, cornea, and focusing on the retina but as it hit the optic nerve, a serious malfunction took place, an electrical train wreck. The nerve endings containing this data became corrupted and transformed; sort of like a bad USB cord between a camera and the computer. Instead of seeing a common, tail-wagging, drooling, domestic dog as originally perceived, the brain, or CPU if you will, interpreted this jumbled group of impulses as something entirely different; the brain screamed...BEAR!

Survival instincts went on full alert, pumping adrenaline like a Saudi oil well, and listing the priorities for preservation of life, the first of which was to RUN. The reflex action of putting the legs in rapid reverse from a squatting position, all the while feeling hot bear breath blowing in my face, did not go well. I ended up flat on my back, flailing arms and legs like an overturned box turtle and making unintelligible grunting sounds.

"Uh, uh, uh."

It seemed someone was trying to talk to me but the last remaining functional part of the brain was yelling, "Ignore it, keep moving you idiot. You have only moments to live." It was like a dream sequence where you're trying to run but it's all in slow motion and you're just not getting a...n...y...w...h...e...r...e.

A young woman's voice finally penetrated my fog of fear.

"Sir? I'm sorry. Did my dog scare you? Sir? Are you all right?"

"Uh, uh, uh."

Then I heard another sound. It was coming from Arnold. He was bent over, holding his belly, and laughing so hard he was gasping in the thin mountain air like one of those trout he'd plucked from the stream. I hoped he'd pass out. Later, after a couple brain reboots from sensory overload and the threat of a major heart attack had passed, I could see the humor in it...sort of.

Finally reaching the end of the trail, we met the waiting bus that took us back to a Steamboat motel for a welcome shower, a great meal with real food, and a soft bed. We were to leave the next morning so everyone could be back for work on Monday. It must have been around 3:00 a.m. when I realized with much trepidation that my water purifying pills had failed miserably at killing all the little critters in that spring fed pond. It was a clear case of THE REVENGE OF THE GIARDIA, a cyst that easily survives in cold water and results in what we here in Oklahoma refer to as the trots. The mountain was having the last laugh. It was a miserable, sleepless night and as we boarded the bus for the long ride home, I approached the trip leader with a desperate plea I thought I'd never hear myself make.

"Please, please don't put any beer on board. I'm gonna need that bathroom all to myself."

Editor's Comment: Let us know what you think! Please email the Editor to let us know your thoughts.