And it fell off of the cliff, followed by a surprisingly satisfying splash

Brent and his friends had been planning for this camping trip for a couple of weeks— I think he might have even invited me on our first date.

Honestly, how could I possibly pass up an opportunity to camp in the middle of the wilderness— just a short drive from Bagby Hot Springs— at an abandoned federal primitive campground.

We arrived, after a little last-minute schedule changing, at Bagby Hot Springs early Saturday afternoon. Carly’s laugh alerted us to her already having found one of the semi-private baths; rising above the din of waiting people, her easily-recognizable cackle was immediately evident to all of us arriving.

Carly had offered to lend us a tent; I had invited and brought a friend who recently moved from the midwest to Portland, and we were just one tent short. The hot springs being a full 40-minute walk from the parking lot and nearest road, and our having an extra set of car keys, lent her our keys so she might drop off her extra tent on her way out

Aside from my walking into the room of a naked man with two women, the trip to Bagby was, although very relaxing, uneventful. After our long walk from the springs to the parking lot, we arrive at the car to find it entirely missing of the tent. Not being the types to worry too much about things like this, we laugh for a bit about how Carly and her friends must have forgotten about the tent, and are now half way back to Portland, laughing to themselves about what they had just forgotten to do— and sixty miles from the nearest mobile service for posting their apology to our voicemail. We then proceed to our little campground.

We get there and make the best of the damp surroundings, have a few drinks, cook a wonderful dinner, and play a little catchphrase. The capstone of the night was our climbing up a nearby path to arrive at a cliff overlooking the river; I didn’t have my camera on me, but the river and dark sky in the middle of the night was unspeakably serene. Exhausted, we pass out in our respective tents after Brent found a moment to throw me into the mud— Josh, my friend from the midwest, by the way, was assigned the back seat of the car.

We probably didn’t wake up until noon, but made a delicious breakfast, did some exploring of the river adjacent to the campsite, and decided to take a few photos from last night’s venue at the top of the cliff. Helen, a friend and housemate of Brent, brought a gorgeous 60-year-old large-format camera, and we both wanted to take at least a photo from up there.

We climb the short trek from our campsite to the hill, unpack our cameras and Helen begins the long process of mounting her camera to its tripod while I take a few quick shots of the river. Not a moment after she begins the process, she decides to move the camera a bit— the slope of the cliff made her a little worried that the tripod might fall sideways into the river 30 feet below.

Gasp, clunk. The camera had dismounted itself from the tripod, and was rolling toward the edge of the cliff— just three feet away. Raina, another of Brent’s housemates, and I both jump toward the camera to attempt to save it, but both realize that the risk of our falling off of the cliff was just as high as that of the camera if either of us tried to rescue it.

“Its fine,” says Helen— in a more zen, calm voice than anybody would ever have a right to use in a situation like this. Raina and I back off, and watch the camera roll off the edge of the cliff, and splash into the water below.

Shaking, Josh and Helen run down the path to the river to see if the camera is recoverable discover that it is, and fish it out of the river, damp, covered in mud and stickiness, and walk up the hill triumphantly proclaiming that they think it’s salvageable.

We head off to the campsite still a little nervous, have a few cigarettes, and make our way back to civilization.

“You know what, guys, I think I gave her my house key,” says Raina, realizing that she most definitely still did have the key to her car.