Into the Wild

Welcome back to the Houghs, Internet.

It's been quite a long time since Yours Truly spent any real time out in the wilderness.  Probably since Africa (2005), to be honest.  So needless to say I was looong overdue for some adventuring out in the wild.

Well, my old pal Trevor called me up one day and invited me out on a weekend camping trip with some of our other friends from high school.  Our core group of guy friends - of which I was one of four - had been taking an annual, weekend excursion into the woods every April since 2007, and every year noted my absence (after all, I was away in Florida, sweating my ass off.)  This year, however, I was back in the Mitten, so when the invitation was extended I readily pounced on it.

Aside from Trevor, our friends Sean and Scrunge (no, that's not his real name) would also be on hand, as well as two other guys we knew from high school that Trevor frequently hangs out with, Ryan and Bob.  The six of us would be camping out on Bob's hunting property - far away from running water, electricity, and meddlesome wives/girlfriends/offspring - for a weekend of trout fishing, gun shooting, not-bathing, and beer-drinking.

Needless to say, after three days out in the woods, we all smelled absolutely terrible.

Check it out. . .

Before heading out to Bob's property, we made a pit-stop at Carrow's in Farwell (the butthole of Central Michigan, if you're not aware.)  Had to pick up the essentials:  cases of beer, meat, ice, cigarettes, more meat, fishing licenses, more beer, etc.

Scrunge (left) and Trevor situate the cooler before heading out.

Taking a two-track out off of Surrey Road and into the wild. . .

Trevor and his blowtorch set to work on the first fire of the weekend

I was anxious to try out a bunch of the new camping gear I had bought with some of my late grandmother's inheritance (after all, she was big on camping, so the acquisition of camping gear was a way of repeatedly honoring her memory.)  Alas, someone - not naming names, but it probably rhymes with Shmalayna and Shmabby - did something with my tent poles, and they weren't with the rest of the tent.  Consequently, I couldn't set up my own tent, and I was forced to bunk with Trevor for the duration of the weekend.

Some tools of the trade

The campsite was located in the shade of some pines bordering a large, open field.  Throughout the weekend we would repeatedly see turkeys scrambling across the open ground (but since turkey season didn't start until the day after we all had to return to the real world, none of us could take a shot at one.  Unfortunately.)

Preparing a healthy evening meal: bratwursts, potatoes and sausages soaked in Bud Light.

Around midnight, the guys started gearing up for some fishing (that's Ryan gnawing on a fishing line, there.)  Evidently there was a river nearby where the trout was plentiful, so basically everyone but Yours Truly grabbed their equipment and readied the pick-ups (everyone there drove a pick-up except Scrunge and I, the city dwellers.)

Sean and Trevor doing. . . something.  I'm not a fan of fishing, so I sat this one out and retired early to bed (I had been up since 5am, so I was dead on my feet. . . and knew that no pictures taken in the pitch-black conditions of a riverbed would turn out all that great anyway.)

Early Saturday morning (that's Sean's tent.)

Yes, that's frost on me and Trevor's tent.  The weather this weekend was far from optimal:  highs of mid-50s, lows of mid-30s.  Seeing how it's Michigan and all, I suppose it could have been a hell of a lot worse for late April.

Trevor and Bob prepare a breakfast of champions:  a ridiculous amount of bacon, and a dozen eggs cooked in the not-at-all-drained bacon grease.  Approximately 4,000 calories and a week's worth of one's cholesterol intake, I'm sure.

Hungry yet?

Los servicos.

Just like I had in Ghana.  Only minus the cockroaches.

Some of the guys had already been out early in the morning trout fishing, coasting on a few hours sleep and catching up with a prolonged afternoon nap.  By the time they rolled back into camp, people were already feasting on grease and dead animals.

Scrunge slept in one of those cocoon hammocks.  Of course.

(Bob's brother and friend - at right - were around for awhile, too.) 

I found this decomposing deer skull about ten feet from our tent door. . . which was pretty bizarre.  Of course I had to stick a survival knife in its jaws.

Bob's hunting cabin, where most of the other guys crammed into during the night.

Around noon, after Sean and I had made another run to Carrow's for more beer, smokes, and meat, the rest of the guys wanted to go fishing again.  Sean, Scrunge (pictured with his trusty metal detector) and I, however, wanted to explore the terrain and seek out buried treasure.  Bob spoke of a centuries-old cabin foundation far out on his property, so, while the others set off for the river, we three strapped on our gear and ventured out into the wild.

Scrunge has a knack for locating old shit with his new toy.  He searched out trees mostly, as people's junk tended to congregate along thoroughfares (two-tracks, paths, etc.) and targets (rednecks love shooting at trees, after all.)

I armed myself with three lenses, including my telephoto lens, which is fun to mess around with (this is a shot of our campsite from nearly a half-mile away.)

Scrunge, on the prowl

Bob's nephew followed us out into the woods for about fifteen minutes before becoming bored with the old junk we were finding (mostly vintage shell casings, bullet heads, etc.) and heading back to join the others for fishing.

Sean checking out a black powder shot that had been buried in the earth for God knows how long. . .

Venturing deeper into the woods

A pretty common sight throughout Bob's property.  Deer blinds were positioned all over the place out here.

We couldn't find the remains of the fabled cabin after an hour of searching, so after I was finally able to get a signal with my phone I called Trevor and he gave us clarified directions on how to find it. . .

The remains of some creature that had been devoured and creepily placed on a circle of stones.  Straight up Blair Witch Project shit.

We had to take some old two-track behind a farmer's field for about two miles before reaching a clearing where the cabin was supposed to be.

The end of our great quest

Not really much to look at anymore.

Scrunge gets to work.  He ended up finding a crap-load of metal scraps, nails, and the like throughout the site. 

Sean kept up morale from his spot on the old wall.

Some bizarre moss (fungi?) I spotted on a nearby dead tree. . .

Across a quiet, dirt road, we spotted this run-down, abandoned house.  I was all for going in and investigating the place:  there was bound to be some treasure - and at the very least, some great photo-taking opportunities - within the crumbling building, but the other two weren't having it.  They were convinced the place was filled with meth, or ghosts.  Or meth-smoking ghosts.

After an hour of digging around the old cabin, we didn't find much.  I pocketed a piece of antique pottery that was still painted - well over a hundred years old - but that's about it.  We gathered up our gear and set off for our base camp.

Scrunge and I were all about taking the slightly longer way around, but Sean was determined to scale this barbwire fence on the way back. . .

A more sensible crossing

The Treasure Hunter

Instead of sticking to the main trail on our way back, we opted instead for a shortcut through a dense pine labyrinth. 

Having a smoke break on a moss bed

Authentic Sean work.

We kept seeing these burrow colonies everywhere.  Not sure what type of animal makes these series of holes, but I'm willing to guess its meerkats.

Another turkey in the field.

Back at camp.  The other group was still down at the river, fishing.

Scrunge shows Sean how his hammock works.  It's definitely impressive, but I think I'll stick with tenting.

Cheeze It snack break.

One of the relics we found in the woods.  Made of some type of plastic, so definitely dates back to the Plastic Age.

I brought this lil' cutie out of retirement to keep my beers company.  

Once we met up with the other group of guys, who were down for settling in and grilling ribs for dinner, we decided it was high time to start shooting stuff.  Sean and I drew up some inflammatory targets and the three of us drove out to where Bob said there were some shooting ranges set up.

Sean brought up his 10/22 Ruger Carbine (almost exactly like mine, but un-scoped and a lower-end model) and a 12-gauge shotgun.  In hindsight, I definitely should have brought up my own rifle, but Bob also lent us a .45 pistol to mess around with, so we had plenty of toys to pass the time with.

I did bring up a pellet pistol to shoot cans with, but that just isn't as much fun as shooting actual bullets. . .

Probably not the safest way to check the cleanliness of one's barrel.

No, you didn't see this.

Checking out where our shots hit (the .22 was shooting high and to the left.)

Adding some additional targets in our line of fire. . .

Sean had a 25-shot banana clip for his Ruger.  I'm definitely investing in one or two for my rifle.

Giving Scrunge some pointers on how to shoot a shotgun.

Inspecting the damage (we were shooting buckshot with the shotgun, which peppered the bejesus out of the feminist and terrorist.)

Unloading Bob's .45.  We kinda felt bad about it, seeing how each bullet was like 50 cents (and they emptied more than a few clips.)

More fun with the 12-gauge (I'm getting one.  Soon.)

My .177 couldn't hit the target accurately from as far back as we were, so I set up some extinguished beer cans on the ends of some tree branches and unloaded on those between rifle sessions.

No one should trust us with firearms.

Back at camp, once more.

Two days of drinking and feasting creates a pretty disgusting mess. . .

It was starting to drizzle out, and with the high winds it was getting pretty nasty out.  Fortunately, Scrunge had an abundance of parachord with him, and Sean had a tarp, so Trevor and Scrunge were able to rig up a wind sheild for us.

Trevor deems it "nap time." 

Bob (seated) also passed out.  At 5pm.

While most of the rest of us were safe and warm underneath our tarp shelter, we scrounged up a second, smaller tarp to protect Bob from the elements ('cause we're nice.)

The remains of the crew.

Burning our targets on the last fire of the weekend.  The next morning, we all parted ways for home, civilization, and showers.

- Brian