With Jim Beam floating down the mountain, Brook pondered our route; forge up the rapids of Ashdown Gorge, or retreat to Plan B, C, D, or possibly E. He is a man with many trail hikes under his pack, and there are plenty well-worn paths to our final destination. While Brook calmly re-calibrates our trip, Sean and I pretend to light saber battle in the middle of creek with our hiking poles. It’s our best friend’s bachelor party, we are knee deep in a raging creek, and there ain’t no one around to ridicule us.

After a brief huddle meeting we agree upon the alternative route, settling on ascending the canyon, and driving up the mountain to drop into Ashdown Gorge via Potato Hollow.

No harm, no foul. A simple reset button push.

Just to be safe, I survey the canyon rim to ensure no man, woman, or child saw our comical false start that resulted in the loss of Brook and Sean’s stiff drink. Yet, I swear I can hear laughter coming from the creek bank. There are no doubts in the party that Brook’s months of preparation will keep us on task. Chipmunk by my guess. Get back into my Explorer, drive up the mountain, link into GPS, and we are all set. How could I know the laughter was chipmunk? The geological layers shaded in whites, browns, and oranges of Cedar Breaks expand before us as I navigate the winding road up elevation that surely will require descending on foot. Possibly a squirrel? Maybe, a feral hamster? Urban glampers haul second homes up the mountain switch backs – most likely heading to well-lit RV parking spaces. I have seen the movies and owned all their comic albums as a kid. Instead of a gradual climb through Ashdown Gorge, which currently resembles a miniature Colorado River, the topographical maps show that the 4.2-mile trek down through Potato Hollow looks to have multiple steep descents. I saw stripes on it’s back. Heavy packs and a new center of gravity are wonky for even the most experienced of hikers during steep hikes. That son of a bastard was a chipmunk. I just know it!

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The fire road’s gradual slope gave us a much-needed warm up before the descent. Crystal Springs trail head opened to a meadow ringed by a magnificent aspen grove. The rustling leaves seemed to applaud us on our yonder adventure. The grove’s cheers intensified as we continued… “Oh man,” I muttered under my breath, “who are we to dampen the spirit of the moment with the minor details of our false-start in the canyon below. No one saw. Let a lie lie.”

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The forecast called for clear overnight skies, giving us the opportunity to sleep under the stars. Amazing does little to describe viewing the Milky Way while camping. Sean and I opted to sleep on a tarp, which could have easily been an adult crib. The vast night sky resembles a trillion star mobile rotating to the soothing sounds of raging creek. From womb to tomb humans of all ages have gazed upon the celestial ceiling seeking answers to the deepest questions. My transitioning from reality to dream world under this environment drifts my mind afar. The only thing between us and floating off into oblivion is the theory of gravity… Am I looking up through the Universe?… Could I be gazing down through the Universe?… I need a tree stump to anchor, cuz the mind is a terrible thing to let run wild in the wild.

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The thin air and yesterday’s hike extended our morning slumber. Sleeping late for three forty-something dads is worth the trip. We are all grateful that our regimented work-home lives easily shed away for a brief weekend of hiking and mental hiatus. Not even the glowing Cedar Breaks, washed in the rising Sun’s rays, can wake us. The white-noise of a forest gently coming to life keeps us snuggled in sleep: birds singing, a cool calm breeze rustling through the cedars, and a chipmunk’s high pitched chip. I know it’s him!

I attempt to spring out of my bedding, but my forty-something body after a night’s sleep on an inflatable camping mattress and 4.2 miles yesterday requires rolling along the ground to the nearest log. I am going to introduce that chipmunk to regret. Once on my stomach the forest jester is about three to four minutes away from some serious suburban justice. At the very least, a stern sarcastic verbal lashing.

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With no treats worth luring him into camp, I sat next to the fire pit pondering tactics. Dangit! Why did we discount Elizabeth’s plea to carry firepower?!? He is just having a right good ole time in the trees chuckling at our expense. “Laugh it up!” I yell through gritted teeth. Partly to magnify my dominance, and partly to muffle my voice. There is little wiggle room for senility if Brook or Sean wake to me losing my ever-loving mind in the general direction of a random tree.

“You were there on the banks yesterday. I knew I heard laughter.” No guns and no treats, I must resort to exploiting his species’ playful nature.

A game of catch.

Snag flies. Hurl the laces. America’s father and son past time. Toss, catch, and toss back. There are plenty of baseball sized rocks along the creek bank to select from. But in a matter of minutes a mutual level of frustration takes hold – my patience runs thin as it seems from my perspective that I am the only one making an effort to toss; while he quickly realizes the objective of the game is for me to hit him with a large rock.

There is no latitude at this early hour for a crazed forest rodent squawking and mocking us. I vow on the watery grave of Jim Beam, before our trip’s conclusion, this bushy-tailed wretch will know my wrath.

“I LIKED YOU BETTER IN THE CARTOONS!!!”