The Backpack Story

Years ago, while on a trip to Canada, in the mountains of British Columbia, I got the camp fire raging, big & hot, only to have some campers’ sleeping bags catch fire.

They moved too much while sleeping. That’s my story.  Thankfully, no one pointed fingers or called me out

I love fire. I’m a bit if a pyro. And I wanted to discourage any critters, such as bears — particularly the brown, grizzly kind — from getting too close.

Later, I realized that my father’s self-made backpack, which I had borrowed, had literally melted. There was a big, gaping hole on the top.

After returning home to Oregon, I sneakily placed it in the attic, positioning it so the hole was hidden. I was hoping that Dad would come across it much later, conveniently forgetting that I had borrowed it and finally settling on the conclusion that the sweltering summer attic heat had done the damage.

I wasn’t so lucky. He discovered it soon thereafter. I was a naive, mostly happy-go-lucky kid. I had dreams, big dreams. And part of that was to avoid punishment. I had a fear, a very real one, of upsetting Father. 

I worried about his wrath daily, which was fierce. He had an unhealthy fearsome fury, which would often erupt like a volcano without warning. Thankfully, I didn’t get a beat down that time. But he did yell & rage at me for awhile. 

I never did ask him about that pack, how it came to be. Maybe one day, if I ever talk to him again, I will ask. 


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