Mark and I visited the creek and made our way up the creek by hopping on the boulders protruding from the icy current. I spotted several fish in the deeper pools just above waterfalls. I was truly surprised to find fish this far up a tiny stream. Back in camp we battled the mosquitoes and flies that came out to feed. As I said, we were very near a swamp, and the insect life showed it.

     We played a few hands of SkipBo and Schnitzel before collecting firewood and preparing for dinner. Typically I like to set up my stove on a flat rock so the flames won’t burn anything underneath, and the pot on the flame won’t tip over in mid-boil. Thus, I found a large, flat rock about 20 feet from camp. I pulled it up and lugged it back to camp, and set it down in the place I wanted it. It had a convex bottom, so I set it down hard to push it into the soil and render it more or less stable. Unfortunately, before the rock hit the ground, my right hand hit the tree root sticking out of the ground. The weight of the rock smashed my finger into the root, then slid it along as the rock strove toward gravitational equilibrium. Within seconds my middle finger was bleeding meritoriously and I jumped and hollered in pain. Mark broke out his first aid kit and handed me sufficient supplies for the repair job. For many minutes I thought we’d have to pack up camp and head for town, but the bleeding abated after not too long, and the stinging subsided in half an hour to a dull throb. Dinner resumed after the excitement, and we cooked up fettucine alfredo and some other pasta product. After dinner, we lit the fire and sat for the next four hours mesmerized by the flickering flame. The night sky was clear as a bell, and the Milky Way swept across the sky above us. I took some extended shutter-speed photos of the sky hoping to catch the pattern of star movement, as well as pictures of Mark’s tent with the light on inside. I stayed up only slightly later than Mark watching the glowing embers of the fire. Around 11, I thoroughly extinguished the fire with water and dirt, and went to bed. When I entered my tent, I was further pleased to find that I had situated my sleeping bag so as to have a natural head rest, slightly elevated and gently sloped. I stuffed my fleece shirt into a flannel pillowcase, and snoozed the best night of sleep I’ve ever experienced while camping. Usually I find that I wake up dozens of times in the night, tossing and turning. But this night, for some reason, I awoke only once before 9:30 the next morning.

     When I awoke, the sun was gently lighting my tent through the trees, and I was compelled to get dressed and out into the quiet morning. The sky was clear, and it was warm out. I walked through the woods and down by the creek. When I returned, Mark was up and about, scattering the ashes and rocks of the fire pit. We decided to skip breakfast, as neither of us were hungry enough to endure the hassle of boiling water.

     I got the idea that I wanted to try my hand at catching fish with the line and hook supplied in the handle of my Rambo-style survival knife. I baited the hook with raisins, cheese, and even cheese and raisins at once, but the trout in the deep pool would only stare at the hook, and not strike. Frustrated, I attempted to cross the creek to get a better angle, but slipped on the slick rocks when jumping, and after scrambling about like a clown trying to regain my footing, finally fell in. Wet, angry and frustrated, I rethought my strategy. I caught a fly that landed nearby, and baited the hook with that. Within 30 seconds, I landed a small cutthroat trout on the bank. I yelled for Mark who came down the hill from camp and photographed the momentous survivalist moment before I removed the hook and released the fish. Technically, catching a fish at this altitude with live bait is illegal, I know, but in this case I don’t care.

     We walked up the bank to camp and began to pack up our gear. Mark had actually started that task long before, but I was too busy with my fishing to do likewise, thus he was done packing long before I was. After a bit, I had my gear loaded and we hiked off the hill towards the trail. We reached the trail and walked briskly along the gentle downhill slope. After half an hour I remembered that I had forgotten to grab my walking stick. Not to be separated from it easily, I left my pack with Mark on the side of the trail and jogged back to camp to retrieve it. Half an hour later I returned and we resumed our hike back to his truck. Within an hour we had reached the parking lot and were on our way back home to Fort Collins.

Afternoon clouds roll in, but bring no rain.   Mark relaxes after setting up camp.    Sawmill Creek. This picture was shot from a very large flat rock in the middle of the current.     Mark and I on the way out, just before I remembered I forgot my walking stick at the campsite.