What are your best Camping, Hunting, or Hiking stories? Share & You Could Win!

Growing up in Montana, I have a couple of good stories. I think one of my favorites is the one where my father signed me up for a city parks backpacking trip. we backpacked with 2 guides and about 10 teenagers to Bass Lake in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Along the way a bear started to follow us. We were told we could bring any groceries to cook the first night. About 4 miles up, we crossed the creek, dropped our backpacks for a break. Immediately the bear swooped in and grabbed one of the backpacks, taking off with it. Once we retrieved it, it was discovered he just wanted the steaks that person had brought for dinner. We continued on to Bass Lake, which ironically was stocked with Rainbow Trout and to cold for bas. .
We camped on the far side of the lake. To be safe we put all of our food in a tarp and hoisted it up out of reach, or so we thought. It turned out to be a long sleepless night with a bear roaming around our camp. At some point, the bear made its way up the tree and pulled the food down. The bear went through and ate what it wanted. My father, being the outdoorsman, had me pack only backpacking meals. They are light and taste awful, to me and the bear. Putting all of our food together, I had the lions share left and everyone got to enjoy freeze dried food the next day. The rangers showed up managed to deal with the bear leaving us in peace, but cutting our trip short.

We went to Finger Lakes BMW Motorcycle rally and camped in the park with about 300 other bikers. This is a 3-day rally over Labor Day weekend. We had a great time touring the roads of central New York, including stopping at several wineries. On the last night, Sunday night, we opened a few bottles that we bought on our trip around Seneca Lake and turned in late. Just as I was heading to my tent, there was lightning and a loud thunder clap. I didn't care at that point, and hit the sleeping bag. I slept well that night with the rain hitting my tent. Next morning, the rain was still pouring down. We waited as long as we could (About a 4-5 hour trip home) before we started packing up. Well, something that we laugh about now, but at the time we were cursing. We packed up our tents, sleeping bags ground cloths, and motorcycle equipment on the bikes in the pouring rain and took off. It rained almost all the way home to SE Pennsylvania. I was soaked and when I took the stuff off of my bike, gallons of water came off. Although it was just guys at the rally, my wife was NOT a "happy camper".

My best camping story happened just 2 years ago. Me and my mother, sisters, nieces, and granddaughter camped out in my moms yard. We taught the kids how to pitch a tent and how to build a proper camp fire. We stayed up late roasting marshmallows and telling scary stories by the fire. The funniest part was when my granddaughter who was 5 at the time had to go pee. She wanted to go in the house but that was off limits because we are camping. I showed her how she had to go to the bathroom outside and she refused to do it for about 5 minutes but then she looked at me and said, you people are crazy but I have to pee so bad, so I guess I will do it. When her mom asked how she liked camping, she said she loved all of it except for having to pee like the animals in the woods.

Was hunting with my dad one of his last years and I shot a nice size buck. It took off running and I shot again. You could hear the thump of the .243 round hit. He kept running. I shot again. Another thump. Still running. By this time (because of you need more than three shots you shouldn’t be hunting in my opinion) I’m out of rounds. So I’m hoofing it across the field at an angle to cut the buck off before he gets to the cornfield and is out of sight. The weird thing is, I’m actually GAINING on him. So I get ahead of him and cut him off, so he stops and looks at me. He would start to move and I would move and he’d stop. This went on about four or five times. So then I started walking towards him and he just stared at me. His legs were weak because he had lost a lot of blood, but he still tried to stare me down. I walked up to him and actually grabbed his antlers and he was so weak he couldn’t put up much of a fight. I got my knife out and finished him off as quick as I could so he wouldn’t suffer anymore and then I got my tag out and put it on. My dad pulled out into the field to help me load him into the truck and this Suburban pulls up. This guy gets out just rolling with laughter. He says “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a Mexican standoff with a deer! I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes!” He asked me why I didn’t shoot again and I told him I was out of ammo. He said he wondered why I was chasing this deer on foot when I was carrying my rifle. Then he says “By the way, since I’m here, I’m the game warden for Bottineau county so let me go ahead and check your license and tag.” I was completely legal (always am) and he said “Have a great day and nice shooting. It’s amazing that he ran that far with all three holes being what should have been lethal shots. Way to chase him down.” I thanked him and we loaded him into the truck and drove home with a very nice buck and a great story to tell. :)

One of Disneyland’s oldest attractions is called Storybook Land. It’s a boat ride through a landscape of famous fairy tale settings. The ride starts with your boat entering the mouth of a gigantic whale named Monstro (from the Pinocchio story), which used to scare the crap out of me when I was little. The fact that you could plainly see the same boats coming out the other end of Monstro didn’t convince me that the ride wasn’t certain death. But once I learned that I wasn’t on the menu, it became one of my favorite rides. I could feel the transformation as we floated inside the whale and ended up in a magical world. I bring up Storybook Land because after graduation from the academy, my brother invited me on a hiking trip to Yosemite National Park. The southern entrance to the park has a long tunnel that dumps you out into one of the most spectacular views on earth: Yosemite Valley. From the lookout area, you can’t see any evidence of humanity; it’s truly a “land before time” scene with waterfalls and sheer granite cliffs. The feeling I had coming through that tunnel the first time was like coming out the tail end of Monstro. I had been transported to another world.
It was Memorial Day weekend – beautiful weather, the temperature crisp but refreshing. We spent the first day in a valley campground with Yosemite Falls as our visual backdrop, and we got into our sleeping bags that night with the sound of the falls as sleep-inducing white noise. We planned to hike to the top of Half Dome, the icon of Yosemite. You can’t escape Half Dome, not that you’d want to. It dominates the valley and its image is on everything from bandanas to bear repellent. In 1980, camping on Half Dome was still allowed. So the next morning, we lightened our backpacks and headed into the backcountry, intent on spending a night on top of the world’s most famous granite rock.
The first part of the hike is called the Mist Trail. And the name doesn’t disappoint. It takes you about as close as you’d ever want to get to a waterfall (actually, two waterfalls: Vernal and Nevada). Part of the trail is cut right out of the sheer granite wall that makes up most of the valley’s geology. The steps cling to the edge, without any railing until you reach the top. When it’s wet, and it is always wet, the climb can be treacherous. Because the beginning of the hike is so accessible, sometimes you run into visitors with questionable equipment. I’ve seen people with heels or flip-flops for footwear. Some tourists wear plastic trash bags as raingear, an inelegant but practical solution, unless you don’t cut out holes for your arms. These clueless (but apparently well-insured) travelers would hike up the slick granite steps, a raging river hundreds of feet below, all with their arms securely pinned to their sides. It was a concussion and/or spectacular death waiting to happen. It’s easy to make fun of inexperienced hikers now, after twenty or so visits to Yosemite. But on my first trip, I also had a few things to learn about wilderness preparation. My backpack was a collection of borrowed “three-season” gear (a euphemistic term meaning: if it gets cold you are screwed). But I was ignorantly blissful about the upcoming night.
As we rounded a curve in the trail, I got my first glimpse of the backside of Half Dome. It was strange observing such a well-known sight from a rarely seen angle, like approaching Mount Rushmore from behind. In another 15 minutes, the climbing cables that help you along the 45-degree ascent came into view. At the base of the cables was a curious pile of gloves from previous climbing seasons. Were they left behind by hikers that had lost their nerve and turned around? A memorial to climbers that had plunged to their death? But armed with my brother’s advice, “It helps if you don’t look back,” I started up the cables. A 45-degree angle doesn’t sound that steep until you’re too far up to turn around. “Halfway to vertical” seemed a more accurate description of the slope when you’re actually on it. I started reviewing my estate planning. But once on top, the view is spectacular enough to make you forget that you still have to go back down. As I enjoyed the unobstructed 360-degree view of the park, I had a feeling that something was missing. Then I realized that almost every picture of Yosemite included the granite rock we were on. We were standing at the one place in the valley where you could not see Half Dome.
We spent the afternoon taking spectacular photos of Yosemite (and of us dangling our feet over the edge of the 3,000-foot dropoff). As the sun set over the Sierra Nevada mountain range, it seemed like the perfect ending to an awesome day. But then a cloud enveloped our campsite in a drizzly fog, soaking us and all our gear. At just under 9,000 feet, the top of Half Dome is not the place to discover that you’re under-equipped, and I watched in alarm as the temperature dropped to an unseasonal 20 degrees. We were above the tree line and couldn’t start a fire. All I had to keep warm were the clothes I had on and my sleeping bag – my sleeping bag with cowboy-and-indian themed lining. I checked the label and cursed my stupidity. The 50-degree temperature rating did not inspire confidence. That night I alternated between wearing my jacket and placing it at the foot of my sleeping bag. As I lay shivering, I considered how many toes I would lose to frostbite. But like most worries in the middle of the night, the worst didn’t come true. As morning approached, I was more uncomfortable than hypothermic. I can’t say I was ever happier to see a sunrise, though. Spending the night envisioning your early death is thirsty work, and as I reached for our three-gallon plastic water jug, I found it frozen solid.
The rest of the hike was fantastic, and the trip started an ongoing love affair with Yosemite. It became my go-to daydreaming location. During insipid work meetings or boring church homilies, I will mentally wander off to hike along the John Muir Trail. After we got home, I made it a point to upgrade all my camping gear. I became a frequent shopper at REI (a high-end backpacking store), retiring my old sleeping bag to live out the rest of its life at slumber parties.
In subsequent Yosemite trips, I found myself fascinated with the people who had decided to live and work in the park. There was one character working at Curry Village, a campground consisting of modest cabins and permanent canvas tents, who made his living driving a modified golf cart, taking luggage back and forth from cabins to cars. In my vacation-altered state of mind it seemed like the greatest job in the world. I actually had a discussion with him on the ride back to our car. It turns out he was a corporate dropout – decided to sell everything and live the simple life in a national park. He was my antihero. I also envied the tram drivers that narrated the tour of the Mariposa Grove of giant redwoods. They had an adlibbed back and forth with the tourists that reminded me of the Jungle Cruise guides at Disneyland. So my post-retirement goal became golf-cart luggage carrier or giant redwoods tram driver. “Shoot for the stars” is my motto.
Maybe Yosemite appealed to me because it was the antithesis of my navy life – slow paced and unchanging. I could depend on its timelessness and simplicity to take me to a less anxious state of mind. In Yosemite, I am my true self. The gap between who I am and who I want to be shrinks enough that I don’t think about it. Today, when I’m asked to imagine a quiet place, I think of sitting in a camping chair, enjoying the serenity of the Merced River.

During a night hike the flashlight batteries died. So luckily I used my cell phone light to hike off the mountain. This was before I had a flashlight app. Don’t worry I wasn’t alone.

In the early 1980s we were camped in our tiny tent trailer at Mactaquac Provincial Park, New Brunswick's "Flagship" Park, on a very dark moonless night. I went to the lavatory to fetch a small pail of warm water, and was wending my way back to the camper by flashlight beam. Suddenly there appeared in the small circle of light what appeared to be a very large black animal with a prominent white stripe down its back. I think it was as startled as I! My wife, inside the camper, heard the pail hit the ground as I flung it and quickly exited the scene. Fortunately, the skunk, apparently, exited in the other direction, scentlessly!

I have 2 camping stories I would like to share. Both of these happened while I was a kid/teenager. Just about every year, our family would travel to the Great Smoky Mountains and camp. We would drive a pop-up camper to Townsend, TN, set it up, and spend several days there. Back then, Townsend was very quiet with only a half dozen or so campgrounds, local stores, restaurants, etc. Each time, we would take at least 2 trips to Cades Cove to walk the trails, visit the old houses, churches, & other buildings, have a picnic, etc. One year, I believe we had just pulled up to the Abrams Falls parking area for the 2.5 mile hike to the falls, one of our favorite hikes. This was a popular area, so many cars were already there. As we were preparing to start our journey, we noticed a commotion among some people nearby. We walked over, and found that there was a baby bear walking around all of the cars parked there. People were keeping their distance, but following him/her to take pictures and stuff. A Ford Mustang convertible was parked in the area with the top down. We watched as the bear climbed into the driver's seat and sat down. It bit into the steering wheel and tore the seat some as it was sitting there. Then, it just climbed back out, and wandered off into the woods. It turns out the car was a rental, and the people using it were not around, probably already hiking. Someone left them a note saying Yogi had damaged their car.
The second event happened when I was an older teen. My dad woke me up early one morning so he and I could drive the 11 mile loop at Cades Cove to see how many deer we could count. Our plan was to be one of the first vehicles for the day. No one else wanted to go with us, so it was just him and me. Back then, hunting was not allowed anywhere in the Smokies. As we drove the loop, we saw herds of 40-50 deer, maybe even more, in one place. We counted around 280 deer before leaving the park, and it's possible we missed a few that we couldn't see. I would say that the ratio would have been about half bucks, half doe. The deer were used to people in vehicles coming to look at them, and just kept eating in the fields as we drove by.

With all of life's challenges and stresses, we all need time [regularly] to decompress and "get away from it all". A couple of months ago I took a long weekend for myself to do just that. I went and spent a few days with friends up in the Golan Heights. Wait, where?!?... Isn't that in Israel?

Yep. After a 26+ year career in both the Marines and in the Air Force, both active and Reserve, I retired from the AF in August 2016 and moved there with the family shortly thereafter. It's certainly has been an adventure living here, and one of the best life decisions I ever made.

Now Israel is a very small country, roughly the size of New Jersey, but amazingly it has mostly all of the geographical and climate features one would find in the U.S. In the hotter spring/summer months, one of the best and more remote places to go for an outdoors experience and a weekend getaway is up to the Golan Heights. Or as I dubbed it, 'the Montana of the Middle East'.
On Sunday, I decided to go for a long solo hike on a portion of the Golan Trail. This revered path begins at Mount Hermon, Israel’s tallest mountain, and only ski resort, and heads down through the hills all the way to the Sea of Galilee, the lowest freshwater lake in the world. I only took on about an 18 km portion of this 125 km trail.

My buddy, another US vet (Army) who lives nearby, was not interested in humping in the heat, forecast to be about 85 deg. F. that day. We left the house at about 0620 and left my car at the end point of my hike, a picnic area near the biblical city of Gamla. He then drove me to the starting point, to a place called, Tel Hushnia. These are the ruins of an ancient Arab town that date back to Ottoman period, about 500 years old. I didn't mind going solo.

I started hiking at about 0650 and already I could feel the heat of the day kicking in. During the course of my trek I passed several historic and biblical ruins, some dating as far back as the Bronze Age, about 3000 years ago.

The first part of my walk started through orchards, animal pastures and along the sloped banks of a narrow irrigation canal. I suspect that this canal was formerly an anti-tank ditch, which are pretty common in this area since the whole Golan Heights was a major battlefield in the Six-Day War. More on this later. I also observed that I wasn't alone during this hike. I had the buzzing flies as my constant companions trying to catch a free ride.

After several kilometers, I arrived at a marshy wooded area named Einot Peham, an officially designated Nature Preserve. What else is officially designated is that this area is still also a marked mine field! The ubiquitous upside-down red triangle "Danger Mines!" signs were clearly written in Hebrew, Arabic and English, and posted right next to my path of travel. Another remanent left over from the Six-Day War.

Prior to this war in June of 1967, the Syrians controlled the Golan Heights and planted thousands of mines all over place in this occupied DMZ. Unfortunately, they didn't create many, or detailed, maps of the locations of these mines. Hence, many of these fields still remained after the war, and still pose a certain uncertain amount of danger to the careless trespasser or stray cow. I came across several other such mine fields during my hike that day. Luckily these mine fields are fenced off with barbed wire and mostly well marked.

Between the mine field on my left and a near impassible ravine, stream, marsh on my right, I was stuck having to ford a knee deep, 40-meter wide, channel of muddy irrigation water in order to continue my journey. This is when the heel blisters started.

Luckily, being a former Boy Scout as well, I was prepared with a small first aid kit that included moleskin. I found a shady place under a carob tree to stop. I wrang out my socks and insoles, applied the moleskin dressings to my heels and then had a snack. I then continued to march.

About 5 km later I came across another remnant of the war, an 105 mm artillery or tank shell carrier. The writing on it was Hebrew, but too blurry to read. One normally doesn't find such items outside of a firing range or military training area. Too bad that it was too big to take home as a souvenir. I did take a selfie with it.

The moleskin helped immensely but the blisters continued to reminded me that they were still there throughout the next 14 or so klicks of my hike. Nevertheless, they did not detract from the fantastic time I was having during my carefree outing. They only added to the magnificent adventure that I was having that day.

And so did the wild boar that I almost ran into three hours later. But that experience will be shared in another post.

I hadn't been deer hunting in quite a while and my cousin and I decided to camp in Shenandoah, VA and go hunting. We went to bed early that night, around 9pm, and it was raining. I was in a 2 man tent, which is not really big enough for one grown man on a cot. So my cot was diagonal and my head was in a corner of the tent. I woke up at midnight, despite the nice pitter patter of the rain - something felt off and I had a surge of real fear. Just then, I heard something large sniff my ear through the tent. I laid frozen. Hearing whatever it was move past, I slowly got up and grabbed my pistol, no sitting mostly naked in my cot with a pistol wondering what was happening. I quietly opened the window of my tent to see a black bear rummaging through our camp. As soon as I shined a light on him, he disappeared.
We didn't get a deer on the trip, but I did learn that I need a bigger tent in the future and the need to better plan for bears!