[pct-l] Fw: AFTER ACTION REPORT - Las Vegas Mountains Expedition

[Edward Anderson]

This, that you wrote, is very funny Switchback.  I never knew that you had a sense of humor.  I thought you were just a Pirate. It was really bold and brave of you to embark on such a risky adventure into the wilderness. And you survived to tell the tale.
When my wife read it she just couldn't stop laughing - and repeating what the ankle biters said.
 
MendoRider

On Sep 11, 2011, at 10:44, hiker97 at aol.com wrote:

Yes, your intrepid PCT hero, trail raconteur, and privateer, Switchback, has cheated death once again.  This time high up in the foreboding mountains near Las Vegas.  This is part of my rugged PCT training regimen for my 2013 thru-hike.  No quarter will be given, bayonet the wounded, and auction off the survivors will be the orders of the day.  I have my grizzly bear pepper spray for unforeseen attacks.
As I advance upward in the rarified air on the drive in, I am aware of the danger I am in.  I am solo with no partners to rely on.  It is me against the wilds and the whims of Mother Nature.  I soon arrive at a backwoods parking area.  I easily gather my gear.  I defiantly shake my fist at the mountain gods.  Others might start to whine and whimper at this point, but hard core backpackers bravely soldier on.  We invite the challenge.  Ha!  We laugh at death.  We laugh at danger.  We laugh at hardship.
I easily reach my 8,500 foot camp area.  I carefully select a spot with an experienced eye to make sure it is sheltered from marauding Indians and roaming hungry bears.  As I effortlessly set up camp.  I hardly feel the strain of the walk.  This is the mark of the harden professional with many years of Navy Seal type training.  I begin to think that the leisurely 2013 thru-hike may turn into a PCT record breaking Yo-Yo. Obviously, I am made for hard core backpacking.
My Western Mountaineering sleeping bag and pad make for a super bed.  Only professionals use this company for their sleeping bags.  My tent proves its worth later that night when a giant thunderstorm hits.  Lightning is flashing all around me, but I am safe and toasty in my shelter.  I feel like I am inside the storm at this altitude.  I like to visualize other campers frantically running around in the storm and suffering wind chill as they try to deal with the deluge. 
My comfort and safety comes from years of mountainman trail experience and endless dusty miles.  I started backpacking in 1968.  Back when the last Ice Age glaciers were retreating from the Sierras. 
Sasquatch and I use to do a lot of backpacking together.  I think I heard him last night outside my tent too.
It is morning and I have survived another night in the dark forbidding woods.  I smoothly break camp for my reunion journey to my car and the trip down to civilization.  I will have many stories to tell about my high mountain adventure.  This is typical for us hard core backpackers.  Others will intently listen to my tales of courage and fortitude.  I think about how this will look on my hiking resume --- another impressive triumph.  The ALDHA and the PCTA will probably want to give me certificates of recognition and high honors. 
Soon I arrive at my Prius and it looks good.  I easily swing my gear into the back without fuss or strain.  The aroma of civilization and familiarity starts to settle over me after my wilderness adventures.  Going down the mountain road should give me 100 mpg to the interstate. 
As I pull out of the parking space the view in my rear view mirror of my campsite and picnic table fade into the distance.  So do all the pesky ankle biters and rug rats and their now applauding pilgrim parents in the crowded campground.  The area campground ankle biters had bugged me the whole time with questions like:

“Mister, you walk like my grandma with her oxygen tank.  I bet a bear could catch you.  My brother says that would be fun to watch.”

“My parents want to know if you snore, mister.  And they said they have heard you mumbling as you walk around your campsite.”

“Why did you say a naughty word when you hit your thumb pounding in that stake, mister?”

“My sisters want to know why your name is Switchback the Trail Pirate, mister?  Did your great-grand-children give it to you or is it the brand of whisky you drink?”

“Senior, why do you go to the bathroom so much wearing your bunny pajamas?”  

“Mister, I heard the campground host tell my mom you needed a better shelf-life.  What does that mean?”

“Mister, do you want one of us to guard your campsite for a $10?  You never know what will happen to your gear if you don’t.”

“Mister, why do you breathe so hard up here?  My little brother is worried there will not be enough air left for the rest of us.”

“My sister says you look like the forest boogie man.  Are you the forest boogie man, mister?”

“Senior, I heard my mom say, there goes the neighborhood when you drove up.  What does that mean?”

“Mister, we heard a neighbor lady say that you probably thought this was an old folks handicapped campground.  Are you lost, mister?”

“Mister, the man in the campsite next to ours was talking to my dad about your campsite.  He said you were writing checks you can’t cover.  What does that mean?”

“Senior, I heard the campground ladies say they know this campground was ”toptional“ for males, but could you please put your t-shirt back on.  You are scaring the little children. ”

“Mister, I told the other kids about you, but they did not believe me.  They are all coming over here to stare at you and take pictures.”

And so on.  I was sorely tested not to deploy my pepper spray.  At least it was not as embarrassing as falling off a trailtown saloon bar stool while getting a pedicure.  But that is another story.

Faithfully recorded and accurately scribed --- your obedient servant and trail knave.

Switchback the Trail Pirate
49%Hiker, 51%Trash
P.S. – Did you notice the Harley-Davidson named a 2012 motorcycle after me --- Switchback


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