Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette braves bushwhacking with her pistol packing kin

     Last weekend I went camping at Priest Lake with my cousins. My cousins (there are like, a billion of them) are always getting me to go outside my comfort zone. Normally the experiences are entertaining. After all, these are the same cousins who introduced me to snowshoe volleyball and rodeos. Very seldom do I hang out with my cousins without learning valuable life lessons. So when they called me up and invited me camping, I knew that I had to say yes. I committed myself two days. That's as long as I can go with out a real toilet.

     When it comes to camping, I am a novice. I just bought my sleeping bag a month ago. I don't know how to start a fire, and the wilderness is not microwave friendly. The biggest issue however is the whole “porta-potty” thing. I've probably mentioned this before, but I've nearly died in a porta-potty more than once.

     Realize that it’s not uncommon to hold your breath in a porta-potty, it’s necessary. My real handicap is that I have to also shut my eyes. This is due to the fact that I always, ALWAYS look into the hole when I enter an outhouse. I can't help but look into the pot, and there’s always a huge pile of something awful staring up at me. The sight of the pile induces vomiting, which in turn causes me to breathe in the foul air. I can't take it.

     Why do I go then?  I have no idea. The idea of beautiful scenery, fuzzy forest creatures and getting drunk with my cousins seduces me. I can't explain it any other way. 

     My camping trip to Priest Lake started out a little rocky. Priest Lake is about halfway between here and Alaska. While it takes about two hours to drive there, I assure you it feels like a few days.

     After arriving at the campsite, it took the brain power of a 7-year-old to put up my tent up; thank God I have one of those. That little snap-together wonder came in especially handy since I had to move my entire camp twice in an hour. Then, wouldn't you know it, I had to pay for my campsite and they don't take debit cards out in the forest. OOPS. I could practically read my cousin's thoughts: Seriously? She doesn't carry around at least fifty dollars in cash and a pistol, just for emergencies? We better make her move her tent again. 

     After an exhausting first afternoon, I settled into bed. It was announced at dinner that we would be "hiking" to the upper lake the next day. As I lay in my tent I wondered what hiking to the upper lake would actually entail. After all, it was my younger cousin “Sacajawea's” idea. I was somewhat comforted by the fact that she had a four-month-old baby. I mean, who in their right mind would want to go on a treacherous hike with a baby?

     That idea comforted me as the mosquitoes feasted on my flesh. Apparently, the non-toxic bug spray is about as effective as coating your body in the blood of a mountain goat.

     The next day we struck out on our hike. As we walked to the top of the first hill I noticed a wounded bat. I should have seen a half-dead creature of the night as an omen. I could have spent the day at the perfectly fine "lower" lake sipping bloody marys and reading Cosmo. But the "upper" lake just sounded far too exotic to miss out on. 

     As Sacajawea was assessing the bat's condition, a teenage member of the expedition threw a rock at it. The bat jumped into the air, stared my daughter straight in the eyes and screeched. The sound was little more than a squeak, but to her it was the sound of Satan's henchmen coming to drag her to the flaming pits of Hell.

     Again, my cousins’ collective thoughts were audible: Is her kid really scared of an injured bat? I mean, I was shooting bats and practicing taxidermy on their bodies when I was her age.

     According to Sacajawea and her husband, "Dances With Guns", the hike was a mere two miles. You just followed a nice little trail, crossed a small creek and then skipped up a little hill, all the while picking huckleberries. The lake was practically within our sites.

     That was probably true at some point, but we took a wrong turn.

     I was following blindly, as this was obviously not my forte. After two hours of walking in what felt like a circle of razor blades, my pug was dying and the older kids had bloody feet. Since I’m a thoughtful and kind person, I offered to take the flip flop-wearing tweens home.

     Sacajawea looked at me with grave disappointment: They were going to find that damn lake. 

 Thankfully I wasn't the only person who was ready to head back to camp. My less outdoorsy cousin has a wife who is almost as insufficient in the wilderness as I am. She was obviously over the whole experience. In other words, she basically told her husband that she was walking back to camp with or without him. Out of the kindness of his heart, and the knowledge that we would surely be lost with out him, he decided to walk us all back.

     The baby started crying as we parted ways. Dances With Guns took the squalling babe out of his backpack and handed him to Sacajawea. We stopped walking – surely they would join us in our return to the camp – I mean, the baby was obviously hungry.

     A little ol’ thing like a crying baby? No problem. Sacajawea stuck the baby up her shirt and started hiking straight up a mountain. While nursing her child. 

     Words cannot express how much of a pansy I am. I can’t even feed my cat and hold a door open at the same time. 

     Later, I was sitting on the other side of the river with my cousin's 10-year-old daughter when I heard a strange rumbling sound. I looked around. Was it her stomach? Was it something rubbing in my backpack? Was it the pug? The rumbling occurred again. I locked eyes with the 10-year old.

     "Did you hear that thunder?" she asked.

     Oh, thank the heavens above: Thunder. It was thunder. I looked up at the cloudless blue sky and once again heard the rumbling.

     I grabbed my young second-cousin’s hand and walked slowly to her father.

     “Um, there’s growling up on that hill,” I said, a slight tremor in my voice.

     That’s when things got interesting.

     It goes without saying that my cousin was armed. However, his gun was in his backpack, which was beneath one comfortable Shih Tzu. Quietly, he asked the wife to retrieve the gun. She stuck her hand under the Shih Tzu and pulled out a pistol. Suddenly she screamed: "Oh no, it’s out of its little holder! What do I do?"

     I wasn't sure if I was going to be dismembered by a mountain lion or shot. Turns out neither: We walked back to camp cowering behind the man with the gun. And we lived.

     Now that it’s over, I may have to say that it was the most exhilarating 15 minutes of my life, next to my wedding night. No one died, and everyone had fun. 

Just wondering if most hikers pack heat,

 SQ