***
By the Snores of Canoe Lake
It was getting on past midnight, the wind had picked up, shaking the tent, and I knew I’d have to kill the guy in the next sleeping bag.
I knew, too, that I shouldn't have eaten all those beans for supper. Maybe, if I’d been asleep, I could have ignored it. I wasn’t.
Two feet away, the Other Guy was snoring steadily and noisily.
Now, folks, there are snores and there are snores. There are quiet snores and there are loud snores. There are snores with the rhythm of the clockwork of the universe, and there are snores that live by their own rules. The Other Guy was a champion of the truly independent snore, an athlete of the vibrating palate.
Some of his snores were loud, and probably kept wolves from the local hilltops. Some were so quiet that it hardly seemed worth bothering to make them. But no two were the same. They were the audible snowflakes of the black night, with pauses and volumes and varieties that seemed endless. There was no way of adjusting to the sounds.
Listen to me: it is a terrible thing to haul a canoe, two fishing rods, paddles, lifejackets, one tackle box, binoculars, insect repellent, sunscreen, a canteen of water, a vitamin C jar full of scotch, dry socks, a first-aid kit, a spare hat, paper towels, toilet paper, matches, a portable cookstove, a good paperback, maps, a filleting knife, two lengths of rope, a pot for boiling water, a frypan, some oil for frying fish, various snacks, a couple of frozen steaks, plastic bags, sleeping bags, dried rice, one tent, inflatable mattresses, spoons, teabags, three cans of beans, headache pills, plates, an inflatable pillow, raincoat, sweater, soup mix, cups, bowls, whistles, forks, small fishing net, duct tape, camera, can opener, bailing bucket, and overpriced yuppie folding saw over a set of really snarky portages for a weekend’s fishing and then to realize you’re going to be crabby and miserable because you didn’t get any sleep. It gets you to frothing at the mouth, and drives you into thoughts you believed your ancestors had evolved out of.
At first I nudged the Other Guy, gently, of course, because I’m a polite and civilized kind of person, who respects life and companionship and the bonding that comes with sharing the great outdoors with a good buddy.
He muttered "whasstk" and rolled over and stopped snoring.
For ten full minutes.
For nine of those minutes I was awake, waiting for sleep. One by one my piano-wire muscles relaxed and my eyes closed and my ears took in the far-off sound of a loon. In the last minute I was drifting into an oblivion so gentle that it could be used to stuff pillows.
Then, of course, the Other Guy started to snore again.
Oh, it was no problem telling myself that I should have been able to sleep anyway. I knew that. I reasoned with myself with a logic that would have shamed Aristotle and a passion that would have put Billy Graham to shame. But it didn’t work. It never works. All I ended up doing was arguing with myself in my head. And getting wider awake.
By midnight, I’d figured out that stuffing my jacket over my head and tossing the packsack onto that wouldn't work. Nor would rolling up my sleeping bag and wrapping my head in it, even with the jacket, lifejacket, packsack, tackle box and paper towels. I decided that maybe I’d go out and sleep on the rock by the shore and let the bears gnaw on me in my sleep. Or stuff my ears full of pine tar and worry about being deaf later.
The thunder ended all that. There would be no sleeping outside, that night. There would only be endless hours of listening to the wind in the trees, the rain on the tent, and finally the awful sound of the Other Guy trying to breathe with my knee on his windpipe.
Did I say that? Did I even think it?
Cancel that thought. He'd come canoeing with me. He’d carried the canoe over three miserable portages. He’d gone back for the last packsack. He’d kept me from stepping on the garter snake on that first portage.
On the other hand, he’d dropped his steak into the fire, so I’d had to split mine with him. Which wasn’t much of a meal. Which is why I’d opened the cans of chili beans and heated them up while he was getting more firewood. The, wouldn’t you know it, he turned out to hate chili. So I’d eaten the whole potful, simply because it wasn’t as good as the steak I’d schlepped over those portages and had been looking forward to ever since I’d told my wife I wanted to have less meat in my diet.
And, come to think of it, he’d used up most of the matches trying to get a fire lit, and by morning the ground would be wet. I just might be eating cold oatmeal and unheated coffee.
There was only one logical conclusion: he deserved to die. I deserved to sleep. The thought crawled out of pits in my soul I didn’t know I had.
I spent the next half hour planning how I could kill him without getting so worked up about it that I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway? Would I just sleep with the body in the tent, or would I drag it into the rain? What time was it? Two in the morning, for God's sake, and he was still snoring. It was obvious no jury would convict me. I’d tell the world he fell out of the canoe while having a pee.
Which, of course, only served to remind me that I’d been ignoring my own bladder for an hour or so.
It started to rain, about then, drumming on the tent. The sort of sound that would put a guy to sleep, if the Other Guy weren't snoring. If I didn’t have to take a leak myself. If he hadn’t saved the garter snake. (Even if his shout of warning had caused that unfortunate encounter with that birch tree and the canoe I had on my shoulders. He’d helped me up, though. I gave him that. He wasn’t all bad.)
Isn’t civilization a curse? It gets you used to certain things. Like indoor facilities. The more I tried to ignore my bladder, the louder it shouted at me. It was as bad as the snoring, and it was inside me. I tried to reason with it. I pointed out the thunderstorm. But having a conversation with one’s prostate gland and bladder is another waste of time, even if you’ve got lots of time, what with being awake at two twenty-eight-and-a-half in the morning. One’s internal organs of the nether regions always win. Mine did. I decided to never drink anything after three in the afternoon.
And those chili beans. There was now a large bubble of gas in my gut. I began to fear for the safety of the tent.
By now, it was definite. I just couldn’t wait for the rain to be over. Something in me was going to explode, and I was running out of time.
But I was determined not to get my clothes wet, so I stripped. Wet clothes ruin a camping trip quicker than anything except not sleeping. I contemplated stuffing my socks in the Other Guy’s open mouth, but I remembered the snake, and decided maybe he could live if he carried all the gear back over those portages while I watched for snakes.
Taking the flashlight, I unzipped the tent and stepped out. One thing about a good rainfall, you don't have to go far from the tent to relieve yourself. Somehow, there's water falling everywhere and a bit more won't make any difference.
The rain was freezing cold on my skin, and the lake was lit up like a disco, with the strobe light of lightning hammering the world. I had a quick pee, and a noisy bit of gut relief that would make a Boeing 787 proud.
I had a sudden vision of a bolt of lighting touching off that personal gas and this end of the lake vanishing in a mushroom cloud, then I was running for the tent as if it were a bomb shelter.
Once inside, I noticed two things. One, I had nothing to dry myself off with. Except my clothes. Two, the Other Guy was awake.
"Did you hear that thunder? Are we safe?"
I mean, what could I say. It was such a stupid question. We were camped, you might know, under the tallest set of pines left in Ontario. These are pines Temagami would be proud of. They were waving their upper needles in the Clouds of Death and they had roots that crawled into the lake. The might as well have had a sign, “Fry Me” on them.
I figured it was the Other Guy's fault. In fact, I was absolutely sure of it. It must have been his suggestion. We were about to depart this vale of snores together, me, him, and his damn flapping pala
te. I almost smiled.
But I dried myself off with my underwear and crawled into my sleeping bag, saying sweetly, "We're dead meat, pal. Dead and fried." The lightning increased and the ground shook.
Then suddenly, it was morning, and light was pouring through the tent. I lifted my head, groggily. The Other Guy was outside, adding some fuel to the Coleman stove. It was just after sun-up. I could smell the coffee.
"You're up early," I said.
He gave me a dirty look. He concentrated his gaze on the stove. "I was awake. I've been awake since three in the morning." He paused. "Did anyone tell you you snore?"
I ignored him. It was indeed the most wonderful of mornings.
***END***
Google "Lenny Everson" for more interesting stuff. Or write me at [email protected]
And be sure to look up my sister Kate's books.
Two in a Tent: Camping Humor Page 2
