Hanging out is thus a subjective thing. It depends on what you like to do. Rick breathes quicker if there's a handy peak to climb. Karen fishes for approximately 27 hours a day and is reluctant to permit the sun to set. She is sublimely happy to hear an 800-page novel read aloud while she casts. Sarah, who affects High Photographic Sensibility, takes pictures of wildflowers. Not trees, not wildlife. Certainly not the human relics she travels with. Just flowers. The smaller, the better. We've known birders to abandon small children and all responsibilities in quest of the western tanager; we've known mountain bikers to return at dusk bruised and besotted with pleasure after a day on the trail; we've known canoeists who spend long hours on minor and gratuitous repairs, lovingly touching up the lacquer, masking the dent—erecting campsite body shops just for the hell of it. We began this book hanging out one day, years ago. Turn back to the tale of the fabled Hidden Lake Soufflé, and you'll see the first words we put down on paper. Active or passive, introvert or extrovert, gregarious or a loner, the possibilities for finding pleasure in hanging out are endless. You've come a long way. Now's the time to enjoy.

Secrets of the Hammock and Other Lounging Devices

Lots of people get to a campsite and don't want to move. Now or forever. "Wake me when it's time to go home," is the cry from the heart. Up goes the hammock between two sturdy birches; up goes the Do Not Disturb sign. Then the trouble begins.

The next time you pull into a car campground, check out the hammocks and their occupants. Looks like the entire melon section of the supermarket encased in individual string bags, doesn't it? People stretched out end-to-end, sinking pathetically in the middle until they look like human nutcrackers. Head and feet high, tush low—a painful, humiliating, miserably uncomfortable position. You can't get a lot of rest that way, and if your back doesn't go out, your dreams of bucolic ease will. You'll enlist on the next day hike and never return.

It's true—an awful lot of people don't know how to lie in a hammock! There's a physics to it, and you should be the first to know. Lie diagonally. That creates just enough countervailing forces to maintain you in a horizontal position. It minimizes sag and rests your back. You can lie there for hours, whiling away the time watching clouds and daydreaming. You won't miss the activists. You won't join the potato sack race. Keep a mosquito net hat in the hammock, a stuff sack filled with a few clothes as a pillow, a book and the snack of your choice, and you won't have to touch down till the cows come home.

Other lounging machines are Ensolite pads dragged out of the tent, propped against a rock in the sunlight or shade, air mattresses afloat on the lake or cast on a summer meadow, or the canoe floating at anchor lined with sleeping pads. (Don't use a sleeping bag unless you're awfully good at boarding and alighting dry. Pads dry fast; bags don't.) Lawn chairs, inflated inner tubes, re-sited dome tents, even a smooth, sun-drenched granite rock overlooking the lake—all are outdoor sofa substitutes. Deep-six the alarm clock. We'll wake you for dinner.

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Stop Your Ramblin', Stop Your Gamblin'. . .

Tom Stienstra, a great wilderness camper and author, tells a fine story about a cutthroat, penny-candy-ante poker game high in the backcountry, where money doesn't count but a steely-eyed bluff is still a bluff. He pulled an inside straight on the last deal in a seven-card stud game, 11,000 feet above the nearest gaming table, and backed down at the prospect of losing his last five M&Ms. A man who knows his priorities.

A camping trip in the county park or in the high Canadian Rockies calls for portable amusements, and if you can't spring Granny's soapstone mah-jongg set loose, a pack of cards will do. We have watched two seasoned couples at a drive-in campsite playing pinochle through a hurricane warning, oblivious to the rising wind, collapsing tents, overturned food hampers and the first heavy drops of rain. You can't tell us they weren't having a glorious camping trip.

The farther you go on foot, the lighter your games will need to be. Miniature plastic chess, checkers or backgammon sets, si; Monopoly or croquet, non. A cribbage board, dice or Trivial Pursuit cards travel well in a backpack. Hang gliders and bowling balls don't. What fits and what's light is what counts.

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. . . Stop Stayin' Out Late at Night

You say you wanna keep shuffling cards till the wee hours, that one more deal is gonna win the pot. You say your end game against your partner's Indian defense takes time to develop: you're not playing chess against a clock out here. True, but you are playing against a huge drain on the flashlight batteries. Unless you're carrying one of those six- or twelve-volt floodlight batteries or a powerful fuel-fed camping lantern, you'll have to close down the house and continue in the morning. Either that or agree to watch the stars the following nights and brush your teeth in the dark. Even hanging out comes with finite options. And sometimes they're non-negotiable.

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The Library

One of our own personal camping pleasures is reading aloud. We find so much time for it—during a rest break on the trail, while preparing one of our elaborate meals, while one of us is fishing, or just while hanging out—that over the years we've gotten through some of the world's longest books. As we read, we burn, so that we don't have to carry the book's weight out. This may seem barbarous, but there's a silver lining (of the authors' pockets), too. When we get home, we go out and buy the book again, a treasure on our shelves and increased royalties in the writer's money market account.

The most satisfactory kinds of books for this kind of reading are those long, episodic novels where it doesn't matter if you miss a paragraph or even a whole chapter. Great dialogue counts a lot. So does the ability to tell a good story. Among our favorites have been Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Robertson Davies' Deptford Trilogy and his equally wonderful Salterton Trilogy, John Barth's The Sotweed Factor, Charles Dickens' Bleak House (over 900 pages!), Henry Fielding's Tom Jones (a lot funnier and longer than the movie), the short stories of P.G. Wodehouse and Ring Lardner, the mystery novels of Dashiell Hammett and a good collection of ghost stories. Jon Carroll, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and a fine old gonzo backpacker, once rebuked us for not including the novels of Anthony Trollope on our list. Okay, they're in. And your favorites will be, too, if you let us know before the next edition of this book comes out. In short, bring anything you enjoy reading—magazines, comic books, joke books or box tops—and any other printed material which you won't mind burning or packing out—crosswords, puzzles, games, mantras, amulets, or even recipes: whatever tickles your fancy. And at least one book per child, however old or young. More if you can manage it. Read and burn. It's the best of cheap thrills.

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Music

We're a plugged-in generation, so there's no use complaining that the quality of silence in the great outdoors has changed for the worse. In fact, that isn't so. The Walkman has come to the rescue of purists like you and us. It's now possible to bring the baddest neo-punk jam into the wilderness without causing damage to more than two eardrums, a net gain no matter how you figure it. There's no further need for a boom box in a campground. There should be no further need for a radio without earplugs. There's nothing wrong with amplified sound except when it's unleashed. Kept inside the brain case, it's an acceptable part of the modern camper's gear.

If you're in a crowded campground, similar consideration for the neighbors in the next tent requires the guitar, mouth organ and group sing-a-long to be muted and closed down before the third watch. Make it soft, low and early.

You can no doubt fit a drum set into a canoe, or carry a Fender bass on a pack mule, but backpackers and long-distance hikers who play music have to weigh things in the balance. The manufacturers have. They've come out with a backpacking guitar, a lightweight instrument that looks like a stretch ukelele. It's long, thin, light, reasonably durable, and produces a sound good enough to keep even a member of the Seattle string band "Who's Driving?" happy in the wild woods.

Our friend Jules plays a mandolin while hiking and fashions percussion instruments out of hollow logs. Peter the Headwaiter plays the spoons. Penny whistles. Kazoos, comb-and-paper, and harmonicas are light, easy, fun and cheap: a child's delight. There's no need to deprive anyone of music if it soothes the soul. Just make sure that it soothes others' souls, too. Otherwise take a hike and soothe solo.

Easiest is a hike along a trail to a ridge, pass, peak or lake that you would otherwise miss if you held to the original itinerary. Fishing a remote, shaded stream may bring you thrills and a late dinner. Lake fishing is less likely to be successful, because you invariably end up fishing in the glare of the sun, when the fish are lying low. It's nearly noon when you get there, and you have to leave around 2 or 3 o'clock to return to camp by sundown. As long as you don't mind a slow few hours of fishing, it can be a scenic and relaxing day. If you're fishing from a canoe, then all bets are on. You can get an early start, stay along the shaded shoreline, check out the inlets, fish from land and have a ball.

And before you set off, secure your campsite. Prepare for hot sun, heavy rain or a ripping wind; any or all could happen while you're gone. Keep food in the shade, leave a rainfly over the tent, and batten down the hatches just in case.

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Bagging Peaks

We're not mountain climbers—as in K2, El Capitan or the Jungfrau. But when we're out in the high country and spot a peak in the middle distance, we often take a day trip to climb it. No ropes and crampons, no technical climbing, but careful scrambling and steady going. Planned right, it's safe. Executed right, it's exhilarating, exciting and exhausting. Gazing out over the crest of a 12,000-footer is worth every hard step and passing terror. The heart in your mouth is your own. It's the best place for it as you look down and around from the top of the world, astounded by your audacity and courage. It can become an addiction.

At the top of major peaks, you'll find a register to sign and log your comments. On less important peaks, the equivalent is often a small tin can buried under a cairn of rocks, in which you'll find a small note pad with room for your signature and a remark or two about the state of the union, the view, the weather or the climb.

Preparation and planning are the keys to successful peak bagging. Plan your route early, the day before the climb if possible. Use the topo map. The easiest way to the top is across the widest spaces between the altitude lines on the map. That's where you should trace your route. If your camp is close to the peak, trace the route up the peak with your eyes, looking for rock slides or impenetrable brush which might not show up on the map.

Start the climb early in the morning. We usually eat a quick cold breakfast, pack our daypack and leave close to dawn. Mountain weather is always unpredictable, more so in the afternoon, and the only thing worse than getting caught at the top of a peak in an afternoon hail storm is getting caught there in a lightning-and-hail storm. An electrical storm on the trail in the forest is impressive enough. On an exposed peak, it's positively terrifying. To avoid this nasty business try to bag the peak early in the day.

Your supplies for a peak-bagging expedition will be the same as those above for any day trip. If you don't have a light daypack, rig a stuffsack to one of the straps off your backpack, and sling it over your shoulder

Dark glasses are required, not optional. If you plan to hike over snow fields, you'll also need "blinders" on the sides of your glasses to protect your eyes from reflected glare. Don't have them? Make some the night before with cardboard cutouts from the cookie or biscuit box, and adhesive tape, or rig up a "foreign legion" side shade from a T-shirt or bandanna, which will also protect the back of your neck from sunburn.

Climbing Rules

Elementary climbing rules should be followed scrupulously:

• Beginners never go alone. Partnered climbing is always preferred whatever the level of experience. Some prefer a minimum of three.
• Don't climb directly below the person above you. Stay off to one side. It's easy to dislodge a large rock or boulder and start a rock slide. Wherever possible, climbers should spread out horizontally or diagonally across the mountain. If you must be in the line of fire of the person above you, wait till she/he has stopped climbing before you head up.
• If you get into an area with rocks jutting above your head, be sure to turn your visor around (like a baseball catcher) before you crack your head on an unseen crag.
• Don't exceed your physical limits and climbing skills. If in doubt, or if you become scared, go back. You get no medals for false valor. Macho Man doesn't live long on the mountain.
• If the going gets too hard, too dangerous, everyone turns back together. This is a group effort all the way.
• Topo maps are helpful, but look closely and make decisions as you climb. Rock can be solid or loose. Snow is hard in the mornings and soft in the afternoons. Brush can be full of narrow deer paths or completely impenetrable. Alter your route accordingly, and mark it with trail ducks if you expect to retrace your steps.
• The higher you climb, the more often you need to rest. Altitude thins the air and deprives the lungs and muscles of oxygen. Short breath and sore muscles result and require immediate attention. R&R is mandatory.
• Don't trust the topo map completely. A 30-foot cliff may not show up within 40-foot contour intervals (see How to Read a Topo Map, Chapter 2). The "peak" you saw from your camp may not be the true top of the mountain, which may require another half-hour (or half-day) of climbing.
• Don't expect to find an easier way back down the far side of the mountain. You may come upon a sheer drop from the top and find it too dangerous to descend and too far to ascend again. It's safer to mark your trail on the way up and follow that same trail back.

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Mountain Biking

Bikers go faster and farther. A day trip to them may cover two or three times the distance of a day hike. Trail biking in the high country challenges stamina and skill and offers solitude and scenery. With a light pack on the back, tools included, the biker is unfettered. If, however, the trail is obstructed by fallen trees or is filled with granite scree, if it climbs or descends too steeply, if it disappears into dense brush, the mountain biker will have to dismount, schlep and haul, or turn around and go home. Expecting the unexpected is a cardinal rule for the trail biker. So is expecting the expected--hikers and backpackers on foot; minor spills and falls; mechanical failures; fatigue. Be, you should pardon the expression, prepared.

Some mountain bikers carry a strap so they can shoulder their bikes up impossible grades. Others grab the handlebars, flip the front wheel up, and roll the bike ahead on the rear wheel. All have to dismount to get over tree trunks and logs. This is hard work, and at a high altitude it's sometimes exhausting, too. Rest. Swig some water, nosh on a piece of chocolate. Get out the compass and topo map and triangulate your position, even if you know where you are! Anything that takes time and forces you to rest and relax. Take a siesta even though it's only 10 a.m.

When injured, rest some more. Walter Mitty made it across the English Channel at the helm with an unset broken arm, but you won't and shouldn't. He's a fiction. You're a fact. And the fact is that cycling, especially rough trail riding, draws injuries like flies to a feast. Knees and elbows, even encased in long pants and sleeves, are vulnerable, and when scraped and strained require attention and a rest break. Elevate the injury (above the heart). Treat it with the ever-present first-aid kit--a cold pack, disinfectant and an ace bandage--and don't get back on the bike till the swelling's down. No sense sending yourself to the trauma ward when all you want to do is hang out.

Water play is as theraputic for children as adults. They don't need a wading pool or San Simeon to be happy. A puddle or stream, a lake or a tide pool will enhance their day and yours. If old enough, they can float in the current of the stream near the canoe or raft. If too young, they can paddle around at the shoreline. For reasons known only to physiologists and low-temperature physicists, toddlers and five-year- olds never seem to get cold. Lips turn blue, gooseflesh appears, yet on they go, insisting on one more splash, one more dunk, one more handful of mud before surrendering to a warm blanket in the sunshine. Yes, we know about the dangers of chill, and so do you, but let them dawdle in the water while the sun is high and they're discovering the joys of the aquatic life. Tide pools are the top of the line in water fun, and entire families can spend whole afternoons wading about touching, watching, feeling and collecting. Shells and stones weigh down packs the next day, but sometimes you have to pay the price.

Rick is one of the world's great grasshopper catchers. He uses them as fishing bait. Now he uses them for Sheri bait. His five-year-old daughter took to the chase as if born to it. Probably some genetic explanation there. Anyway, with the single-mindedness of the true believer, she chased and caught them for the better part of an August day on her third backpacking trip. We're talking hours here, endless pleasure-filled hours, over rocks, along the lake front, through the tall grass. Hal and Rick took turns monitoring the hunt, holding the Ziploc bag. They got tired long before she did. And at the end of the day, she let them loose (hoppers and adults). It seems to have been as much fun watching them depart as it was getting them to arrive.

If you know your edible wild plants, let the kids taste-test them. They seem to love it. Older children often like to use the tree finder—one of those little guides that send you to one page if the needles come in threes, then to page another if the bark smells like a pineapple. All children appear to like to draw, and we know parents who always take along blank books for the inevitable art projects.

There's a message here and it's simple. If you bring the kids along, allow them the fun they seek, and help them get it. You may have to sacrifice the hammock or the mountain bike, but you'll be repaid in kind down the road when they offer to take you backpacking or camping in their favorite wilderness. In the meantime, they can get scrubbed and clean next week at home, and you can burn the clothes in the incinerator.

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The Stars at Night

Supper is warm and filling, dusk is settling over the camp, and the first star is in the evening sky. The last great arena of the hang-out artist is straight above you, and it's worth a look. Chapter 13 will show you how.

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