Jerry was way ahead. No slouch, he can usually be found near the front of the group talking smart and bad-mouthing his country. But today he was on fire. It was a crisp spring morning up on Red Mountain. A moderate climb with good grip, not quite corned up and far from anything fresh. He was two switchbacks up as we all cruised along in our own personal hurt dance. At the top, he had already de-skinned and was giving us the “Let’s go, Ladies” look. “Jesus, Jer, can’t a guy stop and take leak or eat a sandwich anymore?” I muttered (or something to that effect). I offered him part of my sandwich, thinking it might slow him down. “Sure,” he said through a shit-eating grin. “And some water, a transceiver, shovel and gloves, too, if you’ve got some. Cuz all of my stuff is down there.” We could just barely see his characteristically huge pack, about 2,000 vert below us, sitting on the hood of his truck.
We’ve all done it. You’re driving along, making anticipatory small talk about how great the powder/whitewater/single-track is going to be. Most likely, you’re past any town and definitely out of cell range. Wham! Your blood runs cold and a sickeningly vivid image pops into your head: your skins/paddle/front wheel sitting on your garage floor. The one key, essential thing that you need. Right now, right here, today. You spaced it, and you are screwed. Eeediot! You laid out everything you needed and you know exactly what you need because you carefully thought it out and you’re not exactly a rookie at this. Been to a couple rodeos. Guides have looked at your rig at the put-in and marveled as they made mental notes to bring what that guy has next time. Laid out on the floor like your collared dress shirt and clean underwear on school picture day and you neglected to bring THE most important thing!
Of course there is a consequence. Usually painful, expensive and/or time consuming. If you can, you simply drag out the too-thin plastic and buy your way out. “You know, I never did like that (fill in the blank). This new one is lighter and a much cooler color,” you will cheerfully rationalize. Everyone knows the best way to ride the Slickrock Trail is in flip-flops, not those fancy $200 clip-in bike shoes. If you can’t buy, borrow or otherwise purloin the missing item, you might just get the “See ya” from your buddies and the results of your brain fart will teach you never ever to do that again. Maybe. Maybe not.
Hopefully, it is just a low-impact, ha-ha lesson that will kick start the day’s banter. Forgot a corkscrew, or can opener, or maybe all of the silverware for a multi-day, 18-person filled-permit raft trip that includes a lot of soup on the menu. Now that’s funny. But not as funny as driving behind the guy, loaded for Baja with all of his toys and worldly outdoor possessions racked up and tied on top. And there it is, his coffee mug. You have to wonder why he left it up there. Obviously he did not have enough coffee that morning. Maybe he was checking the straps one more time. Maybe he spaced that, too. Empathy takes over and you tap the horn and flash the lights. Or do you wait for the S-turns coming up to test your theory and watch the material carnage unfold?
Forgetfulness may go way beyond personal suffering, developing into loathing and spite from your peers. Just try breezing through your shopping list and subsequently forgetting the coffee on your next hut trip. Or my personal favorite: ice. I was heading to a White Rim trip with a truckload of Colorado beer, not the unmarked 3.2 schwag you’re forced to drink if you buy it in the Moab City Market (ummm … but that’s another story). I had the sacred duty of bringing beer, and lots of it in many varieties. And the key to a refreshing beer in the stinkin’ hot desert is cold, cold, almost gloves-cold beer. The secret to cold beer is of course, ice. Not just ice, but big, 10-pound blocks of ice, which last longer and are available at the aforementioned mega-market. After a grueling day of sun, saddle sores and teeth grit, nothing says “I forgot” quite like a shook-up, tepid, 16-ounce PBR, nosirree. Note: Do not try to MacGyver your way out by digging a hole in the sand, which we all know is cooler than the ambient temperature, burying the canisters of beer, waiting, and then digging them up. The result would simply be a big swallow of slightly-cooler-than-tepid, sandy, cheap beer.
Just ran into my friend Bill Kees (not his real name), who confirmed a story I’ve heard multiple times around the Dutch oven, waiting forever for dinner. He went on a raft trip a few years back and forgot his — yup — he did not pack his raft. Getting a late start on his way to the San Juan, he pulled into Hovenweep to sleep a little and get a crack-of-dawn start to the put-in. He crawled into the back of his van, which seemed a little more spacious and comfy than usual. At first light, his eyes popped open and he sat bolt upright shouting out loud, “My boat is in the f—ing closet!” Pulling himself to the driver’s seat, he pounded back home, hoping to sneak in under the radar, grab it and make it back in time to launch. His wife Susan was already up, shaking her head and laughing.
My friend Marie, who was born in Switzerland and spends half of every winter there, has a great story. It was a big powder day and she was in line, exactly on time with her husband Tom. In Verbier, you ride a series of funiculars, trams and gondolas, all linked together with fine Swiss efficiency. You get off one lift, walk up some stairs, get on the next until you are at the top. Everybody was pumped to be on top of the Mont Fort on that rare clear day. Avalanche danger looked moderate and everything was untracked as far as the eye could see. Marie zipped her jacket, put on her goggles, threw down her boards and was ready to click in and go. One small problem. She looked down. On her feet were her nice, comfy warm boots. Not ski boots — hiking boots. Marie just laughed and her friends laughed too — then they skied away.
Let us not blur the distinction between losing something and forgetting something. Obviously, there are many parallels. The remorse, the pondering, the “What-should-I-do-now-that-this-situation-exists?” scenarios formulating in your head. My wife Melissa and I were heading to a rendezvous birthday party out by Capital Reef for a little slickrock mountain biking. We had already ridden a day in Moab, so we knew that we brought all of the requisite equipment. We drove for a few hours, drove around for another hour or so looking for the obscure, killer campsite that we were all meeting at. Upon arrival, the site was fully decked out with balloons, food, cold beverages and a Tiki-torch-emblazoned obstacle course. We partook in the feast and pulled our mounts off the roof rack to check out the course. “Hand me my front wheel, can you?” I asked Melissa, as I held the fork up out of the sand. Big, long pause. A lot of scurrying around in the back of the truck. “Hey, ummm … you did pack the front wheels, didn’t you?” To which I did not reply, “No, I thought YOU packed them,” because I was sure that I put them in the back of the truck. Turns out that, when we left Moab, they went shooting out of the back of the topper. We found them at the bottom of a small hill at the Poison Spider trailhead, at the end of mysteriously zig-zaggy tracks nestled in the cactus and pricker bushes.
Spacing out does not necessarily involve material possessions. I skied into my cabin last winter for the afternoon, to get some fresh air, get the dog out and check up on things. Turned into a longer-than-expected tour, and, when we got back to the truck, we were beat. As I was driving the 45 minutes or so back home, I rummaged the floor searching for chips, old lunches and half-empty Pepsis. Found some pretzels and ate a couple and then turned around to give my dog Racer a couple. No dog. Not squished way down where I couldn’t see him. Not hidden under a bunch of jackets or truck cab flotsam — just not there. Yikes. It’s getting dark, so I pull an unsafe U-ey and head back to the parking lot, visions of him maybe on his way back to the cabin, maybe a crazed snowmobiler hitting him. I pull up, and there, at the point last seen, are those eerie glowing canine eyes. Sitting there, a little tail wag and slight cock to his head, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. Hopped in the truck, looked at me and his eyes said it all — “Human, you so suck!” Maybe dogs have the whole thing figured out. They just go with what they have,
nothing more. Paws, fur, tongue and teeth. All set. Forgot the water? No biggie, I’ll just drink this puddle. No food? Nothing better than finding and eating dead things. You got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose. Maybe us humans just have too much stuff.
Mark Plantz lives and plays in Telluride with his wife Melissa and their two boys. He drives to town occasionally with his Rocket Box wide open.
Editor’s note: This may be the first time ever I have tacked an editor’s note onto the end of someone else’s tale. But this one I could not resist. We have all had equipment-remembering lapses. Like the time I realized halfway through the first day of a 10-day backpacking trip through Copper Canyon, in which I was guiding 17 constantly hungry teenagers, that I had somehow forgotten the lunches. Everyone was real happy. Or the worst one that ever happened in the entire history of gear forgetfulness: There was that awful YouTube footage a couple years back of the professional parachute photographer who realized after filming his cohorts during the freefall segment of the descent that he had left behind, of all things, his parachute! Splat! Anyhow, I’d like to see some such stories from our readers. Send them off to firstname.lastname@example.org.