Big Bear Hunting

I left Las Cruces the next morning after trying again - in vain - to poop. Ah well. It'd come eventually.

See, the whole reason for such a short trip home was that some friends of mine had rented a cabin at Big Bear for the 4th of July. Well, not really the 4th. For the 2nd and 3rd. Instead of enjoying fireworks over the lake, I found out we'd be packing up on the 4th. Still, I was excited: I'd never been to Big Bear, and it promised to be a lot of fun: hiking, grilling, swimming, ghost stories, panty raids on the girl's camp across the lake. That kind of thing.

It was a blast. I ate so much grilled meat over the 36 hours I was there, my little lower intestinal problem sorted itself out quite nicely. I just kept eating until there weren't no place else for the food to go.

Aside from that, we played outside more than I have since I was maybe 12 years old. Only problem was the company.

Scratch that. The company was great. Except this one person, who shall remain nameless. She complained, she couldn't hike, REFUSED to let an inch of her skin touch the sun (in the words of my friend, she looked "like Panama fucking Jack. Seriously, is she going on safari?" And, of course she had a "bit of a tickle" in the back of her throat. So before we could do anything either morning, we had to go pick up some lozenges at the local apothecary.

It was like having my mom at the cabin, except my mom is cooler. SHE would have played frisbee with us.