Last Friday, our friend Candace Fortney, who is a track coach and an avid backpacker and marathoner, called to see if we wanted to go camping that night. The forecast said the overnight low would be in the twenties, and there would be snow. So of course we excitedly agreed. (I excitedly agreed. Cindy more just sighed.) We have good gear - our tents, sleeping bags, inflatable sleeping pads, etc. are quality stuff. We dressed in our Merino wool base layers (Merino or good wicking synthetic base layers are essential for cold-weather camping/hiking - cotton is the worst) and hit the woods.
We set up camp in Stockton Lake State Park, after determining that at this frigid time of year, there is no one staffing the place where you pay your fee for camping.
We originally set up in a designated campsite with just a few trees between us and the lake. But after we had the tents up, Candace discovered that there was a raccoon lying on the ground a few feet away from one of our tents, apparently having some sort of seizure. I watched it for a while, and even tossed a couple of twigs at it to see if it would respond. It didn't seem to react at all to a flashlight or to the twigs. I didn't know if it was rabid, dying, or just insane, but I've seen enough dumb comedy movies involving the outdoors to know that a crazy raccoon can do bad things to tent fabric. So we pulled up the stakes and moved about a hundred feet away.
There was a fire ring nearby, and I got a fire going. I knew it would be a challenge with the damp weather, but we had some dry logs and I used a Strike-A-Fire jumbo match thingy to get it going, and it burned cheerfully and willingly. That was good, because I didn't bring any lighter fluid or other accellerant. The fact that the snow hadn't started yet probably helped.
We ate lots of carbs in the form of S'mores, granola bars, and peanut butter, and then went to bed. Our sleeping bags were warm enough with all the layering and other stuff we did.
The rub, however, was that I had to get up TWICE in the night to answer nature's call, which causes several problems. The first problem is that when you're warm in your sleeping bag, it is downright miserable to get out in the cold again. You have to put on your freezing boots (Get On Your Boots - U2's new album - check it out. "Let me in the sound..."), and enough other layers of ice-cold clothing to keep you alive in the elements. Then, you have to actually get out of the tent into whatever those elements are doing to try to kill you. Finally, you have to risk the possibility that you will be attacked, um, (ahem), mid-stream, as it were, by an insane raccoon or other servant of Sauron; and this precisely at the least advantageous moment for you to flee or defend yourself. But both times, I successfully accomplished my purpose, and then was rewarded with that heavenly feeling of snuggling back down into the warmth of my sleeping bag.
About two inches of snow fell during the night. Snow has the effect of quieting everything: the tree branches are more muffled when the wind blows and the dead leaves on the ground don't rustle. There's just the occasional swishing sound when the snow on the top of the tent gets enough accumulation that there's a clump that slides off, pulled by its own weight and nudged by the wind. Usually all this combines for ideal sleeping conditions. On this occasion, however, the first such swish woke me up with a start, imagining the raccoon, with red eyes and four-inch fangs, beginning his assault. As soon as I was fully awake, I realized what the actual cause of the sound was, but the adrenaline kept me alert for half an hour or so. Cindy was sleeping like a log, which was a small victory because it's very hard for her to get warm in a tent. This time she was toasty.
The snow had turned everything spectacular by the time we got up in the morning.
A park ranger in an SUV drove within view once, but didn't stop. About half an hour later he came back, this time with a small girl in the back seat staring at us wide-eyed. I wondered if he went by the first time and then went back to his cabin, where he commented on the crazy people camping in the snow, and then the little girl said, "I wanna see!"
I went over and checked on the raccoon. He was still there, and the only movement I could see was his breathing. I asked Travis Bland (one of the great authorities of our time on Ozark wildlife) about it later and he said that it's common for raccoons to get canine distemper, a virus that effects breathing and nerve function.
Also, I discovered that the door to the pit toilet was actually unlocked, despite the website's claim that all facilities were locked until some time in March. Our nighttime fears of a ring-tailed attack could have been abated, but by the time I figured it out we were ready to leave.
We packed up our stuff, and after we got everything loaded in the car, we drove to The Powderhorn Restaurant for epic-sized pancakes. Never had one, you say? You should.
