A Mountain Rescue
Not my story really, but that of my brothers and his best mate.
My brother is a proper outdoorsy type, fit, an accomplished climber, cyclist adventurer, can fly a plane and pretty much conquer most things once he sets his mind to it. His mate is ex-army and discovered a love of climbing early on his career and once he became a civvy they used to go out into the wilds together on a regular basis.

They both live in Scotland and decided one day to do a snowy climb up the 3,565ft Stob Ghabar one of the fine Munros. Well prepared and geared up and aware of the conditions, they set off.
They had a great time, and when they stopped to take in the amazing views, my brother turned round to see that he was now, well and truly all alone.

His mate was gone, disappeared, nowhere to be seen. As his stomach hit his crampons and then came back up into his mouth, he searched the lower slopes for any sign, desperately wanting to see any sign of his friend, even a broken body would be better than nothing, but there was no sign, not a sausage.

His mate had lost his footing, he had banged his head as he fell, and a simple mistake sent him careering 1000ft down a frozen slope, he was trying to catch the ice with his axe, but ended up bouncing over boulders, sliding down the rough cliff face, thrown around the rocks and stones and ice for only 10 seconds, but to him it felt like a lifetime as he struggled, desperately to cling onto something.
Amazingly he came to a sudden, abrupt, stop on a ridge, with a shoulder broken in 3 places, and bleeding and covered in cuts and bruises.
He looked up the mountain and could see a trail of blood behind him. The only thing that stopped him flying over the ridge, into the frozen Loch and to his certain death, was a simple strap on his rucksack. It had snagged on a rock and saved his life, and stopped his back from being broken.
Bleeding and disorientated he finally managed to blow his whistle, and while looking for a way to get back up, he started stumbling along the ridge.

By now my brother and another climber had heard the whistle and spotted him, ‘GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK’ he screamed at the top of his voice, and waved his arms like some kind of maniac , as he could see that if his friend took another confused step, he would go off the end of the ridge that he had landed on and be gone forever.
Thankfully he saw them and collapsed where he stood.
They slowly and carefully made their way down to his friend and gave him sugar and fluid to try to stop him going into shock.

2 hours later the mountain rescue arrived and 6 of them winched down from the helicopter and carried him in a stretcher 300m down the hill and finally got him to hospital.
The Glencoe rescue team were amazed at how lucky he had been, if it had not been for his rucksack he would be dead.
He thankfully survived to see his then newly pregnant wife give birth to their second child and gave climbing a break for a while. He also got some free rucksacks and a first class trip to Italy to be on a talk show to tell his tale, but I think being alive was the best thing he got out of it.
Being prepared did help, but be careful out there kids, you never know what could happen!
( Herb Alpert's Taxi Driver I have very beautiful lips, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 22:00, 2 replies)

A few camping tales from my youth.
St John Ambulance cadet camp.
Divisional camp- Getting lost on our hikes. Being escorted out of an extremely large garden near Plymouth by a most unhappy home owner. Missing the visit of the local County Officers.
Site owner in the Forest of Dean spraining his ankle trying to find us. Missing the visit of the local County Officers.

County Camp
One of the leaders waking us up in the early hours as his brand new tent had blown down.
The French naturist family on Guernsey whose daughter had a lot of boys willing to help her with her English.

Scout Camp
Mostly uneventful but one week we managed one boy going home after putting an axe into his foot. One boy going home after objecting to being told to do something and one angry farmer as what we had used as fire wood was the jumps he had built for his daughters' horses.
(jvz, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 19:02, Reply)

its great....
Camping is something I enjoy hugely. From Duke of Edinburgh trips to weekends on the lash in the mountains. You simply can’t beat a bit of camping.

I start my trips about a week before I go, getting bits out and ready for the day we go, I love getting all my gear together out of the shed, taking stuff I haven’t used In ages and carefully packing it into the car so it all fits properly. I love the drive, the stopping off at service stations . I love setting up camp to make it ‘my castle’ and ensure several nights of comfort,. I love putting up my tent and standing back admirably whilst challenging the elements to try and blow down my tent. I love sitting out after the sunsets with a cold beer and some AM radio, I love it when it rains at night and even a light shower sounds torrential – but I’m nice and wrapped up. I love the early morning cigarette with a mug of tea and the dew on the grass as the sun comes up. The smell of bacon being cooked in a frying pan with no non stick properties whatsoever. Clouds lifting to reveal stunning mountainscapes.

It is a true mental tonic for the man in a repetitive day job

All though the pros outweigh the cons – there are some tough cons…

If you are fortunate to camp when it’s a good English summer, the sun rises about 4:30am and within 20 mins – your tent is like a furnace.
If any neh do gooders are on site with you , chances are they have left food out and the chances are that seagulls (or other birds) have spotted it and proceed to eat every crumb around. Whilst making as much noise as possible.
Children. Nothing against kids camping, but when your being told to keep the noise down when having a beer at 10:30 so the kids can sleep, but they’ll happily wake at 5am to play football against your tent, they need to be brought down a peg or 2…(pun)
Sex. in 100 years of tent evolution, people should realise that nylon with the thickness of the average pube has no sound insulation properties what so ever.
Weather. I can put up with whatever the elements throw at me, but sometimes it will be that bad that you just have to admit defeat and lash the tent in the car and head for home.
Going home. Horrible. You know the car is full of crap and unclean stuff and your in work tomorrow. And the tent needs to be dried out. 3 weeks later and there is still stuff at the bottom of the stairs you will definitely put away this coming weekend….like you said you would 2 weeks ago.

Still I wouldn’t change it – I love the outdoors – its not about getting away like you would at a sandals resort, its about getting your head sorted, giving your eyes something good to look at. Sometimes its good to have muddy hands and shoes without resorting to hippy shit.
(Pat mustard, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 17:58, 8 replies)

The 'Festival'
My most bizarre camping experience happened a few years ago... A friend of mine told me about a great local music festival that was happening in a couple of weeks, and she wanted to bring her boyfriend and his mate, but asked if I would come along so she wasn't the only girl.

Firstly we barely had any equipment, just sleeping bags, and none of us could afford a decent tent, so I decided to buy a £7.99 2-man-er from the local bargain warehouse. (probably should have taken it out of the case first, but more about that later...)

So the festival weekend arrives, we drive around for several hours trying to find the place, until we come across a small handwritten sign, directing us into this random farmer's field containing 2 marquees and a burger van.

The boys hadn't arrived yet so me and my friend decide to pitch the tent. We very quickly realised this was actually a kids play tent and would not accommodate 4 fully grown men and women. With nothing left to do but wait for the lads, we went to a beer stall... only to find this weird kid we knew from college manning the stall. He told us the event organisers hadn't managed to arrange an alcohol licence in time, but had found a loophole in the law which meant that they could 'raffle' the booze if it had tickets stuck on. So you paid £1 and 'won' a can of beer - a prize every time!

Later, my mate's 6' 4" boyfriend arrived with his tall skinny friend, plus plenty of booze and baggage, laughed heartily at our tent fail, and we went off to rave.

Night falls, rave continues, 4am the heavens open and we decide it's time for bed. In this tiny tent we were packed like a box of matchmakers (bags included), totally soaked, with our legs sticking out the velcro door. It had no lining and no waterproofing so effectively we’d have been better off sleeping under an umbrella.

Anyway, fortunately it hasn't put me off camping for good, and made a great “How did you get your chest infection?” story, though it's the first and last time I'll ever take a dump on an open riverbank!
(Fat_Lenny, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 16:37, 6 replies)

I picked up a hitchhiker...
There were a bunch of us, mid-teens, in a tent in Anglesey.
One dark night I need to 'drop the kids off at the pool' so I crawl out of my sleeping bag, drag my kecks and boots on, grab my jacket and stumble off to the khazi. This is a dismal, brick-built, structure; encrusted with many layers of peeling whitewash and illuminated with yellowing 10 watt bulb. Anyway, needs must and business attended to, I'm tucking everything away when... hang about - that doesn't feel right! What the fark? Arrrg!
To my horror, I discover I have picked up a hitchhiker. To wit: a fuken great tick, has its fuken head buried, up to its fuken shoulders, in my scrotal sack!
Shit! Christ! Fuck! Piss! Wank! Shit! Bugger!
So, what to do about this sorry state of affairs - at three in the morning - in the middle of nowhere?
Luckily, I've got my jacket, with my fags and lighter; so I can have a smoke and ponder the problem...
Mid-ciggie I recalled an old POW film I had seen - one where they removed parasites with a lit cigarette. Time to see if it works. Gingerly, I warmed up the bitey bastard with the end of my fag, taking great care not to singe the family jewels in the process. This seemed to persuade the twat that it was time to move on - or rather drop off. Whereupon I acquainted the little fucker with the Stampey twins (as my Doc' Martens were known).

Didn't put me off the 'great outdoors' - just taught me to shake my sleeping bag out before getting into it.

Length? Almost disappeared completely when I saw what was going on!
(minimalist ..., Tue 3 Apr 2012, 16:36, 4 replies)

As a nipper, camping outdoors with my neighbour - the only friend I had within 4 miles.
Every year we'd set up a tent in my parents back garden and camp out for 3 or 4 nights a year. Our parents were fine with this for 4 or 5 years but as soon as she started growing tits they decided we weren't allowed to any more.

It was years later when I realised why they'd put a stop to it but I was only 11 at the time.

It's not like we did anything more than tops and fingers too :(
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 15:50, 11 replies)

Adult Photoshoot perving
I grew up in the countryside in a cottage who's kitchen backed onto the car park of a country pub.

When I was around 11 or 12 my mum was doing the dishes after we'd eaten supper when she started to cackle,"There's some bloke out there taking photos of a girl with her boobs out."

Quick as a flash my dad and I were in the garden peering through the conifers. She was right - there was some fat bloke in his 50's with a big SLR camera persuading some busty 20-something to play with her charlies as he snapped away.

After a few minutes they disappeared behind an outbuilding so, encouraged by some Sid James style guffawing from my dad, I climbed a tree that overlooked this building to see what they were getting upto. Unfortunately by the time I'd got high enough to have a good nosey they had finished whatever shennanigans they were upto and they were returning to their cars.

Reporting back to dad I had to admit that I didn't know what had gone on but observed that he'd returned to his car with her knickers sticking out of his jacket pocket.

Cue some more Sid James style guffaws from my dad. He's a right perv is me dad.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 15:37, 4 replies)

the story below reminded me...
I was in Namibia on a commercial rafting trip down the orange river. We came to a village where we stopped to look at a few bits and pieces. Anyway, some of the group were checking out some lovely small birds when a local caught one in a net. He gently took it in his hands and showed it to the watching tourists. They assumed it was for their pleasure, and were very appreciative.
The smiles disappeared when he wrapped line around the birds leg and picked up the fishing rod that no-one had noticed.

The bird was being used as bait for the local 6ft catfish...

Nobody got back in the water that day.
( zulu eh?, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 15:30, Reply)

Stag doo on the beach
This is not my story, its a friends.

They had been invited to a stag doo - down on the beach near brighton. The idea being, they would spend the day fishing, cook what they caought over a fire, then spend the rest of the evening getting trollied by the sea.

So 6 or 7 of them head to the beach and begin casting out lines. One lad - lets call him john - was opposed to the idea of fishing, or any bloodsport - as he said it. After a few words were said about joining in, and do it for the groom, he eventually picks up a rod and casts it.

First cast. the weight and bait fly through the air, they suddently become entangled and wrap around a passing seagul. The seagul then plummets to the Sea.

"Shit! shit!" shouts John. the line is now spinning off the reel as the seagul splashes down. Another Seagul (presumably his mate) flys down beside the now thrashing seagull. Its calling out for his mate... "Squawk, Squawk!!!"

"what do i do? What do i do?" John was in a panic, he didnt want to even fish, let alone drown a bird.

"Cut the line!" shouts another lad, thinking that if you undo the tighness of the line, it would untangle the bird.

"ping!"

With that, the seagull drops below the surface, as it was obvious the line was the only thing keeping the bird above the water...

the splashing stops, and all that is left is some bubbles and a rather confused Seagull wondering where its mate has disapeared to.

John never fished again...
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 15:24, 6 replies)

Kampenfreude
I take great pleasure in watching novice campers put up their tents, badly.
(Simian Typewriter Supplies Pty. Ltd. is house hunting in the neighborhood of infinity, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 15:08, Reply)

gritty
Not me but a friend was topping out on a climb. As he stuck his head over the top he had someones ashes flung into his face...
( zulu eh?, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 14:42, Reply)

boobs
I've spent most of my life either outside, or trying to get outside so happily have some great memories of the great outdoors.

One which stands out for all the wrong reasons is when I went for a walk up a ravine (Steenbras Gorge) near Cape Town.

It's got the usual river and some lovely rock pools for swimming and jumping in. I wandered up to the very top where there are some very lovely secluded pools, in the middle of nowhere. As I was alone, I stripped down and began to have a swim...

I wasn't alone.

On the other side of the pool was a group of about 10 elderly (read pensioner age) women who had not heard me arrive. They were also stripped down and swimming around naked after there long walk.

It was a little awkward at first, but we seemed to accept eachother and happily continued skinny dipping while keeping a safe distance...I was at the age where seeing breasts would have made my day. I just hadn't expected to see so many of them at one time, and all so saggy...
( zulu eh?, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 14:38, Reply)

My brother and my mate were walking in the mountains.
The had been walking all day and were looking forward to a cup of tea, when my mate spotted a bothy (a small stone cottage for walkers). He strode on ahead of my brother and walked in the door and rather abruptly turned around and walked away. My brother asked him what was wrong, but he just replied 'Keep walking'. After half a mile or so, my brother stopped and asked what had happened in the bothy. Well it turned out as my mate walked through the door, there were two rather aged gentlemen walkers in there. One was stood on the wooden bench holding on to the rafters with his trousers down, whilst the other grey haired gentleman was stood in front of him sucking the others cock and wanking. As they saw my mate walk in, the one doing the sucking took the cock out of his mouth, looked at my mate and just said 'oops'.
( DumbMonkey The penis mightier than the sword, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 14:09, 1 reply)

Nightfall
A pearoast, but worth it I think...

Many years ago, when I was about 14, I went on a summer "outward Bounds" camping trip organised by my school. A week of outdoors activities: canoeing, climbing, orienteering and so on. I was rather surprised that I'd decided to go on it, as even then I was about as athletic as a sloth on temazepam, but in a moment of madness I signed up, and in the end had a lot of fun.

One night we were sent out on Night Manoeuvres, basically orienteering in the dark - and, as it turned out, the fog. Couldn't really see more than a few metres ahead, so when we came to a fence we simply climbed over it -- there could have been a gate mere seconds away, or it could have been miles. Pressing on, hopefully in the right direction, I noticed that the grass seemed to change just ahead - there were no more long stalks. As I got closer, I realised there were no short stalks, either. Then, even closer, I realised that there was, in fact, no ground at all.

Yes, the towering genius that was our P.E. Teacher and trip organiser had chosen to send us out on night manoeuvres, in the fog, on Beachy Head. Beachy titty-fucking Head. A place not known for its sympathetic treatment of the lost, literally or spritually. I had come within about half a metre from becoming the main story on the evening news that night, a greasy smear down the famously white cliffs, and something of a setback in the teacher's career path.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 14:08, Reply)

A sight I shall never forget.
Late Eighties, first holiday without the parents a friend and I hiked round the Lake District, thinking we were the dogs bollocks ordering straight Malibu's in the local nightclub aged 16.

We had hiked around one side of Windemere one day, both in silence with headphones on, went completely off trail and walked across an archery field.

At one stage I saw a steep incline and decided to go up it instead of round, again headphones on I clambered up the slope through bracken, brambles and ferns, pulled myself up the last few feet with my hands imagining I had acheived some Sherpa like attempt on Everest.

As I pulled myself up, heaving my elbows up onto the top I looked up into a huge white bare arse, equally huge white knickers around ankles and pissing like a police horse.

How she hadn't heard me I never knew, I remained transfixed as the old lady (for that it was) finished pissing, wiped her underneath with a tissue from her nearby handbag, pulled up her grots and straigtened her skirt, before trundling off down the slop to join the rest of the picnicing old age pensioners below.
(onemunki Down there for dancing, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 13:17, 1 reply)

Stonehenge freak out
We went to Stonehenge on a hippy freak out in a mini-van with no preparation except wooden staffs and some shit fancy dress Harry Potter inspired wizard outfits. On the way we drank cheap lager, stopped off in a field for a piss, played Didgeridoos next to a busy roundabout with a local enthusiast and when we got there we froze to death and tried to stay alive with hippy vegetarian food. We were hungover and freezing until the sun came up and brought in the Summer Solstice. Here's the video:- www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLHe_b7RAN8&list=UUS7wflIZmjUtkpunctqrE3A&index=20&feature=plcp
(Master of Toss has piles, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 12:43, Reply)

MASSIVE DRUGS
We went to Glastonbury festival, and on arrival, set up camp, opened beers, rolled joints, and a friend and I boshed a couple of tabs of acid.

My friend decided to go for a shit while the toilets were still relatively "clean", which seemed like a sensible plan, and four or five of us went with him.

My friend had chosen the wrong bog, though, as they started moving them with cranes just as he went in!

Silly boy - you're tripping - stop it.

But he was going right up! As he sat there, he could feel the bog being lifted, and SHUT UP. YOU'RE TRIPPING.

But ... I'm going up ...

You're tripping. Chill. Have your shit, go out, it's OK.

Except I'm 40 feet off the ground.

You're tripping.

Just in case (just in case, you understand), in that festival bog, he got down on his hands and knees, and, staring at the floor to check, gingerly raised his hand to the handle and opened the door.

The wind rushed into his face, carrying with it the sight of mud, and, as he looked up, us several yards away, and soon everyone else, pointing and laughing at him on his hands and knees, saying "Seriously, mate - what the fuck are you doing?"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 10:08, 22 replies)

Walking in the Pyrenees
Camping on a sheep farm, we decided to make an expedition along a nearby ridge. 'Some parts of this walk are slightly exposed,' said the guidebook. Well, that'll be fine with a 7 year old, right? After all, it's in the local book of walks.

So I set off with 2 teenagers and a 7 year old. As we stepped off the road on to the first track we saw a sign: Missing - dwarf goats. We tramped along the leafy tracks, climbing higher and higher. We could see large birds circling above us, and soon we got to a flattish area where there must have been 40 vultures pecking at some dark shapes. We'd found the missing dwarf goats.

We continued - the kids started complaining as it was hot, but then we started to see lizards everywhere, and we crested a rise that gave us a view into the peaks of the Pyrenees - incredible. So with a second wind we pushed on, losing count of the lizards we saw. The ridge loomed ahead of us, looking grassy and welcoming. The 7 year old and his big brother rushed ahead. It turns out that the ridge was extremely exposed - very steep either side, with a little crest of rock about a foot's width wide. The boys were scrambling on ahead, loving it, while I worried after them with their sister chatting away happily. If this is a 'slightly exposed' walk for the locals then I didn't want to see the difficult ones!

We stopped for lunch on a rocky outcrop big enough for us all to sit down. The land dropped away on either side for several hundred metres. We could see our tent, a long way away and a long way down. It really was hot, we had no shade, and we'd run out of water, but the map showed me that at the end of the ridge was a drinking trough, so we pushed on. Eagles were soaring all round us - above our heads, and below us, skimming the steep slopes. Most of the time I couldn't see the boys, just heard their delighted shouts as they found another exciting rock to climb around.

After a couple of hours the ridge flattened out, we dropped down onto a saddle, and sure enough there was the drinking trough, surrounded by cows. We pushed gently through them, finding a trickle of water coming out of a plastic pipe. It was the sweetest water I'd ever tasted, made all the better with the calm lowing of the cows all around us.

From there it was an easy stroll over springy grass back to the tent, passing a chain of 8 little watermills on the way, with a bored teenager who gave us a guided tour for 1 Euro. The last little village we passed through had a beautiful well, with clear water sparkling into a long channel which ran around a little square, shady with hanging flower baskets.

We got back to the tent: I was exhausted. The kids were jumping around reliving the vultures, lizards, the ridge, the eagles, the cows. "Can we do it again tomorrow?" Truly the great outdoors.
(Smale is stuffed, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 9:16, 2 replies)

I used to live in the great outdoors,
Camping close to nature, watching the sun set over a different view every night. Then I stopped being a refugee.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 6:48, Reply)

This was a nice place

33rd largest lake in the world, out of cell phone range, and no jetskis.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 4:02, 4 replies)

Reading some of these stories
It's the 'stay at home' berks who are the real idiots. Some people brave the outdoors, get hurt, get rashes and burns and colds and lice and scrapes, bruises and fall down mountains, slip into rivers, lose tents to gale force winds, poo in their hoods and wake up in all sorts of situations involving animals, plants, locals and environments.

I salute you people.

But those who cry over a damp sleeping bag or a wasp in your buttie or a centipede in your hair and then never, ever venture outdoors again just because you had to poo in a bush, you're the real fuckers who will dissolve our evolutionary sturdiness should the shit ever hit the fan. Fuckers.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 3:52, 5 replies)

Camped in my garden once
Did a slightly delicate vertical wrist drop whilst emitting the words 'Hmmm that's narce!'

in my garden.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 2:22, 1 reply)

I used to camp in public campgrounds
about half the time it was great but the other half there was some yahoo that figured that he was giving the rest of us a treat by allowing us to listen to his shit-kicking music all day and his buddies' pissed up fireside philosophical discussions all night.
Now I own a patch and have the satisfaction of saying "You are on private property, so get the fuck off my land."
Now they only come when I'm not there to steal and break stuff.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 2:11, Reply)

Worms Head,Gower.

Spent many a weekend on this island in Summers past,fishing and camping before mobile phones came about,for 12 hours a day you are cut off from mainland cos of the sea.
There was something magical and frightening about being totally cutoff from civilization,and it was hard graft to get to with all your gear,my last trip was enough to tell me that I,m getting too old (breaking a finger on the way onto it didn,t help).The sunsets and sunrises were something to behold.
(andycrass loves two hats on, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 2:07, 11 replies)

I'm probably too off topic here,
But some things people do outdoors should be kept strictly indoors:

Walking up Portland Street in Manchester on my way home from work tonight. Literally every ten yards or so, someone had spat on the floor, been sick on the floor or pissed on the floor. It's fucking disgusting. People are fucking disgusting.

Every weekend I get into work, and some dirty bastard has pissed on the shutters, and the whole reception area stinks of it, and I have to mop it up.

Every week I consider hooking a car battery up to the shutter, but I can't because of something called "The Human Rights Act".

If you want to act like a fucking animal, you should get treated like one. If you want to get so fucked up that you spew up in the street, or you can't control your bladder enough to wait until you get home, then you deserve to get fucking electrocuted for pissing on my shutters. How the fuck would you like it if I came to where you work and pissed on your desk?

Sorry, I should probably rephrase that:

How the fuck would you like it if I came to where you work and pissed all over the shelves you were trying to stack?

Pricks.
( PMGT -Bacon., Tue 3 Apr 2012, 0:50, 21 replies)

Kick a man when he is down...
In Cornwall for the missus grandparents 50th wedding anniversary. Staying in the fine county on the cheap by camping out at St Agnes Head. Great buffet spread, lovingly prepared by friends and family that morning and stewing lovely in the stinking hot August sun for hours.

Later that evening we returned to the camp site and turned in for the night. Nothing unusual until around 2am when the stomach starts making churning noises like a washing machine. Then the sinking feeling, am I going to chuck or am I not. Being not at home and in easy reach of a porcelain alter I thought I'd better go through the normal get-up-in-the night routine that you do when under canvas. So I successfully made it to the loo block and took up residence in one of the cubicles for two hours, alternative between puking, shitting and feeling so ill that I crawled into a ball and slept on the loo floor shivering till dawn.

The weather the next day matched my attitude, grey, cold and stormy. The missus is only vaguely interested in my night adventures with food poisoning, she really wants to tell me something else, but not at the camp site, that's too easy. So I agree to be driven up to the cliffs for some air, it will do me good (yer right). Then once perched on a rock feeling sorry for myself and just about holding it together my other 'arf jubilantly announces to me that I am going to be a father. Excuse me if I don't jump up for joy. I got daggers for the next couple of days till I could recover enough to make the correct positive noises regarding my coming offspring.
(ihavechangedmyusernamesoicannotbeidentified, Tue 3 Apr 2012, 0:24, Reply)

I live in this province and this is why the outdoors is fucking great.
Clickylinky
youtu.be/ThFCg0tBDck

(It's a linky to a video of happy smiley people having fun in the outdoors in western Canada)

If this doesn't make you want to come here you are dead inside.
If a bear gets you then you're dead and inside.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Mon 2 Apr 2012, 21:57, 13 replies)