Campy camping

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Walking into the backcountry this weekend with wine and frozen steaks (cool protein technology -- saves on weight, not as tasty as ice in your cocktail). 

I'll carry a journal with me, crossword puzzles clipped from the newspapers we always seem to have in a pile in the corner, and a fishing rod. I can't bear the thought of using live bait. As a kid I'd beg to pluck a worm from a can and ... ewwww. Struggle for survival. In a pinch, I think the worm skills would come back if needed. 

Don't ask my husband where we're going, he'll just give a non-committal, "Oh, North Cascades." Keeping the spot a secret. He's been growing a beard for a week now. I'm growing the hair on my legs in case we encounter a wolverine.

I am SheRah of the Jungle. 

So if we go missing, please find the sealed envelope on the kitchen counter above the junk drawer. Which junk drawer you ask? Very funny. Inside are plans to enter a gorgeous campsite via a washed out road with our backpacks, wine and a red wagon pulling Michael's beer. 

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