[at-l] Doing nothing and loving it!

["Ern Grover" <ern@cybertours.com>]

I'm on strike until further notice.

Dog and I did some weekend hiking last Saturday in Lebanon, Maine.  It's
not far from the house, and then, it's in a nice secluded spot.  Nearby and
upstream is a small pond which has a stand of topless oaks, long forgotten
except by a few heron.  I didn't expect we'd be able to do more than five
or six miles since we got off to a late start.  

We stashed the van on an abandoned "rails to trails" dirt road by the stone
bridge.  A trickle of water could barely be heard, since the dry summer
hasn't really been good for the streams and rivers.  Clouds of lingering
newly hatched mosquitoes bore evidence of the slow waters as we approached
our "established" firering.  

Peeling some tinder from a nearby yellow birch, I stuffed it in my pockets.
One good handful would be enough to get a fire started.  Along the way I
gathered some dry twigs from low-lying branches of white pines and some
squaw wood from some winter damaged hardwoods.  Buddy was busying herself
chasing a squirrel down by the brook.  She retraced the steps of the
squirrel, ran around a large oak tree a couple of times, then Mr. Skippy
sat above her head, chattering a warning, waving his bushy tail.  It would
have been cute if an acorn had tumbled below, smacking Buddy's head, but
the
squirrel was content in reprimanding her for the moment.

In short order I had a good fire going within the firering.  Since I come
to this spot frequently, I took the liberty of pulling a couple of wire
shelves from an abandoned refrigerator up the trail I'd found some months
before.  Not that I couldn't manage my cooking pot over an improvised
trivet, it only made sense to use the old shelves, now rusted, to steady
the pot over the firering rocks.

Arranging the bed of coals evenly between the rocks, I filled the cookpot
with a couple cups of water.  Bubbles began forming in the water near the
bottom of the pot.  Buddy had her eye on the bag of Fritos I'd brought
along, so I popped the bag open and grabbed a handful.  They really smelled
inviting, and, of course, Buddy needed no second invitation.  She's a
strange dog; she'll eat anything I eat.  On one camping trip I packed in
some dog food.  Goofy hound wouldn't eat it until I refused to give her any
of my food.  Since that time, I just pack a little extra foodstuffs for
her.

Just as I was getting situated, the wind shifted and blew smoke in my
direction.  It's uncanny how that happens.  I moved to another rock, got
comfortable, then realized I hadn't put anything else in the pot.  Groping
around in my pack, I pulled out a bag of wild rice and some spices. 
Dumping the contents into the pot of warm water, I was careful not to miss
the pot.  My appetite was becoming noticible by this time, and all I could
think of was mouth watering wild rice, fresh onions, green peppers,
mushrooms, and some Chinese black pepper meatballs tossing to and fro
across my palate.  As the water began to boil, I gave it a quick stir.  I
figured
the rice would be ready in a half hour, so I reclined against the oak, Mr.
Skippy still overhead, looked up into the bright blue sky, kicked off my
sneakers, and enjoyed the peace and quiet of the moment.

Sleep overcame me for a few minutes.  The smell of rice cooking woke me.
I'd purposely pulled it to the side so it could simmer and cook. 
One more stir and it was time to add the chopped vegetables and add the
meatballs.  Buddy took a keen interest, especially with the meatballs.

"Only one, please, only one", her eyes seemed to beg.  "Git, hound.  Wait!"

The pre-packaged biscuits I'd wrapped in a few layers of tinfoil needed
turning only one more time.  Everything smelled so delicious, and my
stomach beckoned with a growl.  Poking around with my cookpot and biscuits
with a couple of sticks, I managed to shuffle everything to a flat rock not
far
from the fire.  Buddy was excited by now.  Popping open the pot
cover, the aroma of the rice and veggies steamed by my nostrils, the
delicious smell of the meatballs made my mouth water.  Opening the
foil, eight buttermilk biscuits smiled back at me.

Thanking the Lord for this treat, with one eye on the dog, I reclined again
against the tree, savoring every spoonful, rolling every bite around my
mouth, tasting every tiny morsel, taking pleasure in every distinct flavor.
 The rice could have been cooked a little longer perhaps, but the veggies
were at the brink of a nice crunch, the peppers, mushrooms, and onions were
cooked a little further, and the meatballs, already precooked, added a
wonderful dimension to everything combined.  I had the forethought to smear
a
little butter on the foil before adding the biscuits, so when they came out
of hiding, they practically melted in my mouth.

Anyone hungry yet?  I can still taste that wonderful campfire meal,
relaxing in the sun-speckled shade beneath that old oak tree, hearing some
crickets in the distance, hearing the slow moving stream lull me to a
wonderful brink of relaxation.  From time to time my snoring woke me up. 
Too bad, I never did get to hike.

Life is good!

Ern Grover, Father & Son Clockworks of Springvale, Maine
ICQ: 922536 / AOL: MaineMan47 / 207-490-3500
Website: http://www.cybertours.com/~ern/

Today's Thought:  (evaluation report entry) "Works well when under constant
supervision and cornered like a rat in a trap."

Yesterday's Thought:  "Road Kill... It's not just for breakfast anymore."
 




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