It's a rare day when I leave a place once, and once only.
Very often I get to the threshold of too far to turn back when I realise I've forgotten something reasonably critical; you know - wallets, keys, Children, clothing, stuff like that - and, thus, return to collect said forgotten item.
It's likely that this after-the-last-minute remembering is a learned behaviour from long association with befuddlement - mine now... but first, my Dad's.
Dad's befuddlement was insidious because at no time did he seem befuddled. He cruised through the chaos with an air of supreme confidence and je voulais faire cela such that the unsuspecting kid did not see the hardship coming - right up until he'd utter the infamous "No Sweat for a big operation like this" curse.
Fortunately, hardships make for great memories.
I may have mentioned that Dad liked to camp.
Well, actually, Dad liked to hunt and fish - and remove himself from the stressors of civilization - which pretty much amounts to the same thing; so, in order to accomodate those preferences with the maximum efficiency... Dad camped.
And it was good, because we camped with him. Most of the time time we took Mom, but sometimes we left her at home to her devices - but only when she had done something especially deserving of that rare treat.
Another rare treat Mom was especially deserving of was a tent trailer. Dad bought it from a friend of his in the Old Country early one summer, after a particularly odious camping trip to Kaslo, on the shores of the Mighty - and, ultimately, Unfathomable - Kootenay Lake.
It rained that trip. Rather a lot. I was about six, and I distinctly recall the bread floating out of the canvas cabin tent that was swamped in about five inches of water. Mother Packed me and my little sister over to Gramma Jay's Camper - sturdily housed on the back of a 1962 Chev Pickup truck - and gamely said nothing to Gramma and my older sister calmly drinking tea and playing cribbage in the dry warmth. Her eyes bulged a little when Gramma indicated it hadn't occurred to her it was raining that hard - but I, as is my custom, digress.
Mom had emphatically stated that she was interested in sleeping in a moldy canvas tent Never Again. So dad bout the trailer in an effort to woo her back to the campground.
Admittedly, it wasn't much of a tent trailer, but that was the beauty of the thing. It was beds, storage, and a table, arranged 20 inches off the ground with a reasonably water-resistant roof - which is really all Mom wanted. She set to its organisation, even including little lists taped to the underside of the bed lockers describing what the proper contents should be for a standard trip.
It was also small enough that Dad could easily maneuver it around without using a car. As it took him several years to master reversing a short hitch trailer, this was a Good Thing.
We dragged that trailer everywhere.
One Labour Day weekend, after Mom had given up camping for the season, Dad decided my brother and I should join him in a trek up to the Lussier River for one last Fish before school set in for the winter.
Dad made a list of the things we ought to pack, and we set to work. The nice thing about the tent trailer was that its standard load-out saved half the packing time.
Friday afternoon right after school we hook up the tent trailer and roar off. It's a drive - 45 minutes south, and then an hour north, half on paved roads, half not. That's typical of south eastern B.C. - a 200 km drive gets you 45km as the crow flies.
We were at our usual location on the bank of the river, down in a draw basically under the road and bridge before dark. We set camp in a hurry; Dad wanted to cook dinner. That's when we made the discovery.
The tent trailer was great as it stored almost everything you would need camping.
You know - except when Mom has, unusually, already commenced cleaning it out for the winter.
The critical issue was Pots. and Cutlery.
Cutlery was okay. Dad and I had our schrade knives, and we could use those to whittle forks and spoons for the three of us. I defy, however, even the most seasoned mountaineer, survivalist, man-vs-wild aficionado or Queen Scout to whittle an effective Cooking pot.
And this is where I learned that It Ain't Over until you have exhausted all the possibilities.
Dad found a big tin of canned peaches. The can opener was in the cutlery box back home, though.
Ever open a tin can with a folding knife? It works alright if the blade locks, like these, fortunately, did. Terrible for the blade, though.
We ate dessert first, and then used that can to cook our meals in for the next two days, and had a stellar fishing weekend.
To this day, when the Avoidable Sideways Slide happens in my own endeavors, when I just plain screw up by forgetting something critical and my learned after-the-last-minute-remembering magic fails me... well.
I'll just wing it. I'll think of something.
I prefer to do this with just a touch of panache and je voulais faire cela - it's fun to watch my Beautiful Wife's eyes roll like that.
The trailer hitch broke on the way down the mountain. Dad had to chain the thing to the truck, and I hung out the back window watching it to ensure it didn't jump off. Ate exhaust fumes until I was car sick. I think the hitch ball had lost its nut, but I don't recall.
That would be typical. Dad was aggressively unlucky about vehicle maintenance - acerbated by burgeoning indifference - and the tent trailer, and the K5 Blazer took the brunt of it when I was a kid.
But those... those are stories for another day.
