Eight weary travelers. Four kayaks. One destination: what is apparently the third most popular state park in America. We woke up bright and early this morning to the wretched to cry of the blue grouse, probably creation's most deeply suppressed regret, an abomination of an animal, a disgrace to all birds. Scratch "bright." Then, it was only early—3am or something morbid, I don't have a watch. On the way out of the campgrounds, I recall encountering a swingset. Mike and I touched the tree branches. Emboldened by our glorious achievement, I tested my swinging abilities, and took on the age old challenge: going ALL the way around the swing. It didn't work out exactly as planned— I took an expedient flight to 10-feet-awayville via swing. Biking was nice. We got in about 12 of our 35 miles before being distracted by cheap sandwiches. Seven miles to our ultimate destination, we encountered a fully decked out Chevron food mart, where we purchased an immense amount of refrigerated fried chicken and potatoes. Stuffing our new found treasures into our bike racks already brimming with gear was quite the accomplishment. Ready to crash, we entered Fort Townsend. By the way, we never made it to the destination aforementioned in that appropriately dramatic introduction. We intended to go kayaking, but our plans were squashed by our doubting our ability to make it in time. Regardless, at camp, we had a meal fit for a king on a budget. Nobody had room for marshmallows, but the roaring fire that yours truly kept burning late into the night was too tempting for any trekker to decline. I'm writing this while Koby's
Written by Trekker Aaron
