After a long day in the saddle, I like to have a beer as soon as I get to camp. We'd ridden our bikes from Beaverdell and after 70 kilometers, we were looking forward to meeting my wife Janet at the camp in McCullough. My throat was dry and I calculated that we'd each done 33,000 pedal strokes to reach our prescribed goal for the day.
When we showed up at the Forestry campground, Janet had everything set up - the huge mansion sized tent for the two of us stood in a clearing, she had left space for Jackie's tent, arrangements had been made for firewood and Janet was hunched over the picnic table busily chopping and slicing up fresh vegetables soon to be roasted over the fire for supper.
It was an idylic scene and a welcome sight after pedaling uphill all day. As I approached the cooler in the SAG wagon, Janet stopped me in my tracks to inform me that she hadn't been able to stop at a beer store but she had a stash of Pusser's Navy Rum hidden in her carpet bag in the trunk. My heart was set on a cold beer. However, a tot of British Navy Rum might hit the spot. Maybe even a couple of tots would be acceptable.
|That fine elixir|
|The locking system|
It was while I was preparing a second dose of Caribbean rum that Janet suggested the bed of red hot coals in the firepit had reached the ideal temperature and that it was time to place the roasting rack full of vegetables onto the grill. Through some fluke of nature, the slick handle of the grilling rack slid from my hands as she passed it to me and the whole contraption slammed into the side of the steel firepit base strewing diced celery, frenched beans, shredded carrot, chopped peppers and a host of carefully prepared vegetables onto the gravel and dirt that made up the floor of our campsite.
|Not for us|