Camping at Cougar Rock

Last weekend, we escaped the city and joined a group of friends at Mt. Rainier. While we've camped with many of these friends over the last decade, this was only the second time we'd been camping with kids - four of them to be exact, ages 4, 3, 2 and 7 months. Don't get me wrong, I love playing auntie - singing songs, bouncing babies, playing peekaboo and telling stories - but I wasn't sure how well they'd fit into a hiking adventure (or a good night's sleep for that matter). Fortunately, the adults outnumbered the kids (and included one set of grandparents and some grown-up cousins), so we were able to divide and conquer. We had a great time (and only were awakened once or twice in the wee hours by our small neighbors). Rather than regale you with the entire trip, let me share some of my favorite moments.
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Pressure cooker curry has been gobbled, s'mores have been toasted (why does food always taste better when you're staying in a tent?) and darkness has fallen. The fire is crackling and the smell of smoke and evergreens fills the air. Time for a bluegrass jam! I was instructed to bring along my guitar - talent beyond the ability to play C, D and G not required - to go along with the banjo. Phil's parents are in a bluegrass group in Eastern Washington and I am nervous to play along, but eager to test out some of those bluegrass harmonies that I've been learning in class. There's nothing sweeter than singing and playing near the campfire, though we keep our instruments out of the direct line of cinders and sparks - especially since the "good" banjo mistakenly journeyed to Cougar Rock. We sing "I'll Fly Away" and "Bury Me Beneath the Willows" as I've been practicing in class and I learn some new tunes. I finally abandon the guitar to Lisa (one of the grown-up cousins), swearing that some day I'll learn better fingering to transition from G to C, and concentrate on melding our voices. We sing until exhaustion takes hold (and we are told in an imperious tone by the four-year-old to "stop singing!").
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Trent, Phil (whose daughter is safely joining her grandparents for the day), Lisa and I have hiked Eagle Peak, 7 miles round trip with about 3000 feet in elevation gain. An eagle circles our head, as we snack on our sack lunches that we packed back at the campsite. A daring gray jay begs for crumbs. We hear Trent calling and see him across from us on the actual peak (rather than the saddle) much higher up still. We circle around and see Mt. Adams, Mt. St. Helens (which three of us summited three years ago), Mt. Hood and the Paradise Lodge. There is still snow on the ground, which we scrunch up in our hands and place on our necks to cool down from the 85 degree heat. While we are enjoying the moment, we eagerly anticipate a return to Longmire for ice cream sandwiches.
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Two of the little ones have crawled onto my lap on the camping chair. The oldest looks at the rings that I've carefully placed onto my necklace (I've learned that hiking makes my fingers grow into fat sausages and I prefer not to cut off their circulation) and asks if she can wear them. I tell her that Trent and I are not going to share and prefer to keep our wedding bands safe. She replies, "I want my daddy to get me a ring just like this". When he hears this, he decides that a trip to Claire's is soon in order. The younger waves my empty water bottle at me. We sing and bounce to the tune of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik".
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All too soon, it is time to leave. Though we're tired and ready to return home, we also are all a little wistful that the experience could last just a little longer before going back to everyday life. A week later, my hair still smells a bit of campfire smoke, a souvenir from the trip - or perhaps just wishful thinking. Ah well, there's always next year.