Terror at 13000 ft.

Subject:      Terror at 13000 ft.
Date:         13 Jul 92 19:53:28 GMT
Followup-To:  talk.bizarre,misc.test,rec.pets.birds,rec.backcountry

     It wasn't particularly cold on saturday morning, so I only put on
a sweater as I got up to boil water for yet another apalling reconstituted
meal.  Surpizingly, I had gotten several hours sleep the night before,
with scattered dreams of submerging the republican national convention in
lime jello and taking a trip to Kib-O-Land (tm) [some would call them 
nightmares, to be certain].  I tried to catch some of the rosy finches that
were loitering around our campsite like so many winos after a night of
drinking too much thunderbird, as I've heard that when mashed they make a
tangy sauce to pour over your instant oatmeal [the finches; everyone knows
that winos make red sauce].  My reactions weren't nearly as good as theirs
so I had to settle for some leftover chicken a-la-king to top my miserable

     After Dave and Jennifer eventually arose and pounded a similarly 
apalling breakfast, we started our ascent of the mighty Everest (well,
Mount Whitney actually, but Everest sounded better).  On the trail we
once again ran into some of the people we'd seen on the hike into trail
camp.  We saw Scott and his brother John (Jen was drooling), and of
course we saw Brian and the FOUR-HOT-BABES-FROM-MANHATTAN-BEACH (tm).
Once again as we saw this group, I couldn't help but think why couldn't
I be Brian just for tonight.  I mean whaddaya think this guy was doing
with FOUR-HOT-BABES-FROM-MANHATTAN-BEACH in a crowded tent all night,
anyway?  PACHANKA!  No wonder they set their tent up over at constitution
lake (I dont even have to tell you what we called it, do I?)  away
from all the other campsites at trail camp.

     As we hiked along the switchbacks up towards trail crest, Jen kept
singing "ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall", until I wanted to 
strangle her.  I decided right then, if I hurl this time, I hurl on her.
Sadly, our hero (me, of course. Who else would be the hero of my story
you worthless git) couldn't hack the altitude as well this year as last,
and alas after a prolonged rest stop at trail crest, I had to turn back 
and go back to trail camp unrequited.  At first the hallucinatory effect
had been quite pleasant actually, but when Mother Theresa (tm) appeared
to me dressed as Zippy the Pinhead (tm) and started reciting lines from
Coleridge's "Rime `O the Ancient Mariner", I knew it was time to turn
back (why couldn't she have done "Kubla Kahn", or something else less

    I went back down toe [I consulted the VP on this spelling] trail camp
and wept bitterly.  No I didn't.  I went back down to trail camp and 
joined the Republican Party.  Wait a minute.  Clearly you can see I was
a confused puppy when I got back to trail camp.  I later found out that
Dave and two of the FOUR-HOT-BABES-FROM-MANHATTAN-BEACH didn't make it
to the top either, crashing out on the back of the Keeler Needle, within
view of the hut at the top.  I'm inclined to believe that Dave could 
have made it, but stayed behind for the pleasure^H^H^H^H^H^H^H^H duty of
consoling the two FHBFMBs.  Since the west side of the ridge was snowbound,
they had to share bodily warmth and all that.  Jennifer made it to the
top, led by her beloved Scott and John.  I got even with both of them 
when I cooked dinner (which Jen had selected, I take no blame).  They
were both more overcome by altitude sickness than I was when they got back,
so I returned some color to their cheeks (green actually) as I opened the
pot and offered "Care for some honey-lime chicken".

The biggest disappointment of the whole trip was that I didn't get the 
phone numbers of the FOUR-HOT-BABES-FROM-MANHATTAN-BEACH (tm).  Oh well,
they probably would have stopped talking to me once they found out that
I wasn't a rock musician and spent most of my time posting worthless
drivel and all-out fabrications (like this one) to talk.bizarre ("Whats
Inner-net mean?").  


p.s.  You decide which parts are real, and which fabriacted to make the 
      story more boring than it already is.

   Dan Quayle is a Bozoe, doen't you think soe?

This post is copyright 1994 John Perry. Any rebroadcast or republication is prohibited without my expressed written consent. Write to me with your comments or usage requests

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