bears

I went camping in Shenandoah last weekend with two grad school friends, Space-Monkey and Jakov.   They arrived Thursday night, and while packing we ate pizzas and drank beer and watched Highlander.    They slept on my floor, which they didn't mind, because they're tough.

We packed up and drove out to Skyline, picked up some fishing licenses from a tiny-ass redneck mom-and-pop ammo shop, complete with pronouncements on the gun laws of every state on the drivers' licenses we gave them.   "California is a retaaaarded state!"  

We hiked down from some parking lot about 3 or 4 miles into the backcountry, along a stream called Jeremy's Run.   There were about five or six stream crossings, which were really annoying.  I'd never had to do those before.   Jakov was Mr. Balance and probably only did two-thirds of them but I really didn't like the thought of falling facefirst off a log. 

We found a good secluded clearing to camp in, and commenced two days of trout fishing, whiskey-drinking, and exploring.   I caught my first trout.   I cleaned my first trout.   I ate my first trout!   It was exciting.      We need more whiskey, though.

When we ran out of whiskey late Saturday, after hiding in our tents waiting for a thunderstorm to pass, we explored the ridge behind our campground, and ran into a black bear.   We saw him about fifty yards away, and stopped; he then disappeared, and then reappeared from another angle about twenty-five yards away.   That was our cue: slowly get the fuck out of there.   Thankfully he didn't follow us back to camp. 

It rained a lot Saturday night, but my one-man tent's fly held.   The hike out was brutal and quick: one hour or so up out of the valley.  

We had beers and good pub food at Ventnor's in Adams Morgan after coming back.   One thing I love about DC: even the shitty bars have decent kitchens.