As night fell upon our camp the following evening, we quivered with the tyranny of our own indigestion. What had made those strange tracks around our camp the night before? As nautical twilight illuminated a few trees in the distance, we glanced across the remains of the day. Around us were wide-open rolling hills... typical to the Northern most reaches of Canada. Winding its way through the middle of this desolate valley like the mishapened ass crack of a 63 year old man, was a tranquil stream. Here we would scan the perimeters of the distant treeline for as long as we could-- setting up motion detectors outside our tents.
     It would be a cold, sleepness night on the Dolly Sods' plateau--not unlike the nights Hannibal must have endured while trekking through the Alps... only different. Undoubtedly, Mr. Cobalt was well prepared with the skull piercing capabilities of his .22 caliber pistol. Not to be outdone, I went about designing a catapult from abandoned railroad ties and engine parts-- without a gyroscope, however, its directional capabilities were as useless as a Bangkok whore with syphilus. I resolved to cook my meal of Backpacker's Pantry Louisiana Red Beans and Rice and retire to my tent for the night. I took one last glance at the night's sky and observed satellites moving above the stratosphere... for one fleeting moment, I wondered if this is what it sounds like when doves cry.
     Several hours went by without much occurrence. Around 2 AM, I began to hear strange chattering sounds coming from the direction of the treeline. I imagine it sounded like a person talking backwards, only the third consonant of every fourth word spoken after each successive minute-- changed to the preceding consonant in terms of its alphabetic order. Needless to say, this realization left me as incontinent as an eighty-five year old woman wearing protective senior undergarments. Thank god for my thermal contolled outer shell with Gortex ($135.99 at Mountain Trails). I called out to Mr. Cobalt, who had also awakened to the sound of the perplexing language synchronization patterns being exhibited by this strange creature. Again, we observed a strange meaty-onion smell lingering throughout our campsite. Being aware of Mr. Cobalt's problems with lactose intolerance, I suggested a regimen of Lactaid and reduced dairy products. He curtly informed me that he was not effusing the odor-- rather, he believed the creature making the noises was the culprit. Despite my reservations, I accepted that perhaps the two were related. I was reminded of those eloquent words spoken by our heretofore president, George W. Bush... "Those North Koreans are evil... evil I tell you."