Mr. T and a Norwegian safety slogan.

One at a time!

Camp 2 was built on a sloping hillside next to a river. Many trees had been cut down to make room, but few had been removed. Aside from the small areas cleared for tents the whole area was a stumble-fest of branches and tree trunks. Still, it seemed wonderful for what it represented - progress. We washed our socks in a small tributary and settled into the tents. Dan advised we use our packs to level our sleeping pads by shoving them under the foot. This worked in the same sense that shoving a bicycle under the pads would have worked; they were level but just as uncomfortable. I slept awful and woke with spasms in my low back. I had shared the tent with Pal, who was now developing a hacking cough and cold-like symptoms. His struggle had kept me up much of the night. I took a dose of Advil and set about stretching my back out with some of my newly learned yoga positions. A crowd of Porters and their children quickly gathered to watch. It was hard to ignore their presence as some crouched down to examine me more closely. The men commented quietly to one another while a few of the boys tried to mimic my poses, smiling, laughing and falling over. I was in pain but could not help smile at the odd circumstance. 

For reasons I am not sure of, I chose to squander precious ounces of gear weight by bringing along a small plastic device left in my Christmas stocking by my sister Michelle. It has six buttons and for each emits a well known Mr. T quote. I brought it to breakfast at camp 2 and addressed the team in a confessional tone. "You know," I began. "It was a hard day for me yesterday. I struggled. I fell, I thought about quitting and complained to myself bitterly. Then a voice came to me; a firm voice, a voice of inspiration, a voice of possibility. And it said (at this point I pushed one of the buttons on the device) "Quit yo Jibba Jabba!" It would have been a comedic moment if not for  the roar of the nearby camp stoves. "What did it say," Carol asked. I held it close to her ear and pushed the button again. Turns out she was not familiar with Mr. T.  Carol nodded politely as Dan, who had taken my setup as genuine, started a discussion of the many trials of the trail. "No. Wait a minute," I interrupted. I held the device near Pal and tried again. Apparently Mr. T was never big in Norway. I looked to Ivan, then thought better of the notion. Denis was definitely out. Dan might know who Mr. T is but too much time had passed. Comedic window closed. I slipped the device back in my pocket and sat down. I resolved to try again later with the better known "I pity the Fool!" button. 

At each camp we had a tarp-covered area for the Team to gather beneath for meals or socializing. Jaimie set up the kitchen in one half of the shelter, a busy array of three to four white-gas camp stoves boiling water for drinking and simmering our next meal. A plastic foldout camp table was centered in the other half. Each of us had a small three-legged folding stool we brought to the low slung table. Jaimie kept an assortment of instant coffee, teas, cocoa (Milo), and dry biscuits there for us to choose from. The one luxury I afforded myself was a handful of Starbucks instant coffee packets. I brought one to each breakfast and combined it with a bit of Milo to make a mocha that almost brought tears to my eyes. 

Periodically one of us would suddenly heave to one side and tumble to the ground as a leg of our stool sunk into the soft soil. The natural reaction is to grasp at the nearest thing in an effort to arrest one's fall. This was typically another Team Member, who then also fell over.  After awhile we developed a kind of gentleman's neglect whereby one would override the temptation to grab the person seated next to him, and that person would override the temptation to help.

I had just fallen over and still lay sprawled across the branches that made up the floor of our group tent. A moment earlier Dan asked if anyone had anything to report about their health or injuries. "I have a loose stool," I responded. It was one of those rare opportunities to be literal in two senses at the same time. The group laughed at my apparent pun. "I started a course of Cipro this morning," I added, picking myself up. Intestinal bugs can be a serious problem on long treks, especially at high altitude. "OK," Dan acknowledged, "I have the same thing going on. Let me know how that goes for you after a couple days of Cipro." Carol reported early symptoms of a reoccurring Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) condition she has fought off an on for years. Pal declared himself to now be in a full-blown head and chest cold. Denis and Ivan were fine. Discussion of each health issue was followed by a marshaling of relevant medications and a promise to report any worsening of condition.

Dan dug a "cat hole" at each camp for team members to defecate in. It was typically a few hundred feet away in some private location marked by a trekking pole. Pal volunteered a reflective band he had brought along. This was placed on the pole to aid in discovery at night. "Reflectors save lives," Pal stated in the tone of a public service announcement. In the long dark winters of Norway people just keep on with their favorite outdoor activities. A government sponsored campaign to reduce injuries featured the "Reflectors save lives" slogan and a free reflector. This campaign had been highly successful in terms of reducing accidents and also ingraining the slogan into the subconscious of Pal. It became impossible to mention Pal's reflector without him saying "Reflectors save lives." He was being funny, of course, but it came across as some kind of verbal tic. After awhile I started setting him up with "Hey Pal, what do reflectors do?" "Save lives," he would respond on cue. It was how we connected. 

To access the cat hole at camp 2 one had to cross on area of inter-meshed tree branches, climb over a four foot tree trunk, weave through thick brush and side-step between tow huge rotting stumps. "Does anyone have any requests," Dan queried as we wrapped up our morning breakfast of Italian pasta. "I do," I said. "I would like it if the approach to the cat hole at future camps is not a steeplechase course." the Team laughed in agreement. "But don't you like my reflector to mark the spot," Pal asked, then adding "Reflectors save lives." "Yes," I responded, "it  helps me to see where I wish I were as I crap my pants." Dan gave up a good-natured laugh and promised kinder placement next time.