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The Boys had previously arranged with DeWallis and High-Altitude to leave a note as to their campsite-where-abouts at the trail intersection of Great Gulf and Wamsutta trails. A rendezvous late Saturday afternoon would be inevitable… Especially with both parties monitoring their TalkAbouts on channel 1 after 2:00 PM. (It was also a cool techno-gadget-kind-of-thing the Boys had going for themselves.)

On Friday when the Boys reached the designated trail intersection, they had to make their first big decision. The 5 campsites on their map were spread over a 1-mile block of thick woods on 3 trails. None of which were known to be vacant. They had to use their intuitive back-country powers to hike blindly in one direction or another in search of a "base camp." (This could take some time.)

Tired and imagining the day light beginning to slip away, they consulted their map for the "perfect" home-base. They wanted a site that would make a great "hub" for taking additional day hikes. The Boys decided to turn right and headed north on Wamsutta Trail. Down a very steep embankment, they were quickly confronted with another early spring, raging stream to cross. This one proved to be more difficult as the water was deeper and there appeared to be no easy dry footing to cross on.

Jimmy led the way. Zip-bing-bop. He was across. Then the-Knee. More cautious and more tired due to a throbbing knee, he relied on his walking stick for balance as he picked his way across the stream. "g" found his own path of rock tops and flagged Whiskey-Tottin', "This way Rog!"

Big mistake. Nearing the end of "g's" imaginary rock-skipping path over treacherous waters, Roger lost his focus and subsequently his balance. (Or was it the other way around?) He reached for a steadying grip on some branches that were free spirits and was sucked into the stream's cold, turbulent grip. Boot soaked and wet to his butt, Roger's pack took a momentary dip in the churning water. Damn. While "g" worried that Whiskey-Tottin's misfortune was his fault, Roger feared the worst… another ruined camera - four in as many trips! His wife was gonna kill him. (That's another story for dryer times!)

Needless to say, the 30-minute hike to proposed campsite "x" was occupied, and the Boys had to turn back and (once again) traverse Whiskey-Tottin's nemesis. An hour had gone by and they were back at the 'ol-trail-intersection. This time they turned left, walked 25 yards, and claimed one of the two sites on the trail.

With anxiety induced perspiration bleeding from his forehead, and very nervous about missing a 6 PM feeding deadline, Jimmy-The-On-Time-Eating-Machine requested that he cook his prepared meal for Friday's dinner. A gourmet chef in his own rights, Jimmy had pushed "g" to the edge of his own backcountry culinary territory by whipping up (from scratch) a thick, creamy macaroni and cheese… with fresh sour dough bread purchased off-trail. The meal, however, was a near total loss. After completing the assigned the difficult and unwanted task of draining a 5-quart pot of cooked elbows without a colander, "g" boastfully ("I did it!") returned to the-Knee's makeshift log table and promptly spilled 3-pounds of perfectly cooked pasta onto the ground. To which the Boys immediately activated the "10-minute rule" and certified that the cleansed meal was as good as new.

Saturday morning brought pleasantly cool weather. The Boys gradually left their individual, nylon domiciles. "g" was first. He awoke to the scratching, gnawing sound of squirrel-on-hanging-food-sack. Unlike "g's" extreme, food-hanging system (black food bag and rope hoisted 65-feet above a stream), the-Knee's food cried "Take me!" as it hung within close range of squirrel-jumping-tree-branches. Oh, well.

The-Knee was the envy of the group as he rolled out of his new, never-been-used, ultra-light tent (3-lbs./6-oz.). Next came Roger who was still taking the dampness out of his boots. Finally, Jimmy appeared bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, "Where's the java?"