Evening was upon us as we (Greg Relf, Kit Winn and I) bounced and banged up the old rugged road which was ceratinly made for 4x4s but we had a 3-speed, straight 6, 1957 Chev with size
9 tires on it and the damn thing would go anywhere. So up the road we went 'till it top out in view of the falls ahead. With packs on we set out on our 4-day trek and entered the forest
in the fading light. It wasn't too long and we were engulfed in darkness and on a cliff adjacent to the roaring falls. With no further chance of hiking, we just sat down on a ledge, got
into our sleeping bags and made the best of it, though we gained little sleep because a few bats that kept buzzing us. Horrid they were!
Morning came all too soon with drizzle-type weather as we climbed up the cliff, got on a way route, and proceeded along the creek to Lower Jordan Lake where we made camp (tarps only - no tent).
Our camp, with a grand view of the lake, looked more like a hasty hovel rather than anything else. Upon making camp, Greg discoved one of his mother's Bible's and a few other books in his pack,
that Kit had placed in it before we left Greg's house prior. Kit the trickster had struck, no wonder why Greg complained his pack was too heavy on the hike! Needles to say, Greg was none too
happy but Kit was Kit, and one had to expect something amiss when you went fishing with him. Soon we had a fire going to keep warm and to use for cooking. The meals would be mostly fried trout that
we would catch, spuds, pancakes, and of course "canned bacon." In fact, that's what we ate for four days! Prior to our first meal however, as Kit opened the first can of bacon, he promptly
threw one piece on the ground?
"Hey, what the Hell did you do that for?" I stated.
He replied with a big grin, "one is going to end up on the ground anyway, might as well do it now and get it over with."
Canned bacon was like that: sticky and rather paste-like, and usually some would fall out of your hand and end up on the ground, then into the fire. And Greg, Kit and I had become accustom
to having that happen. So Kit's actions were "spot-on" but still rather funny to say the least. Besides, the one piece helped fuel the fire in the constant drizzle.
The fishing we had was pretty good, catching many Montana Blackspoted Cutthroat trout on flies and lurers. Their meat was brilliant red and their taste superb. We ate and ate them about as
fast as we caught them, especially Kit, who loved to eat fish. And it seemed he enjoyed eating them more than catching them, so Greg and I kept him in good supply. At camp, we kept the fire
going from morning into the late evening before retiring under the pitched tarp for sleep, which didn't happen all that much due to the mice that kept running over our faces during the night.
The drizzle never stopped until our forth day as we were hiking out. Both Greg and Kit packed up and left before I did and were down the way route a few hundred yards already as I began to follow.
"This pack of mine feels rather funny," I remember thinking. Off went the pack and to my suprise the trickster had struck again, inside, was Kit's cooking gear and some other stuff of his.
I yelled down through the hollow for him to come back and get his stuff, as I wasn't going to pack his stuff out. I placed it all in the grass, and soon Kit arrived with a shit-grin on his face.
"You been had Kit," I laughed, "there's your gear."
Eventually, we reached our car and bounced back down the road from where we came...and yes we ate 3 or 4 pounds of "canned" bacon during . . .