Brothers Camping Trip '05

The 1st annual Brothers Camping Trip went off with a bang, a flat, a slip and a whole lot of beer.

Brad, Jeff and Mark Rogers set out for Inks Lake with the hope of having a weekend of relaxation and reflection. What they got was four days of heat, four days of laughs and four days of Jeff taking pictures of himself.

The weekend started more like a professional baseball team playing the five & under softball squad. The weekend started with a blow out. Brad's hybrid tire couldn't hold the weight of two former heavyweights and all their food. About 20 miles outside of Llano, all hell broke lose. Expecting an old, broken-down motorcycle to pass them on the left, the Rogers brothers Brad and Mark quickly realized no motorcylce was near them. The grinding noise was coming from the left rear fender. A blow out to such an extent as to make the Myrick-tire-place-guy say, "Damn."

If it wasn't for the purchase of one Toyota Tacoma some four years earlier by the brother Jeff, the trip would have come to a quick and abrupt halt on the side of highway 71. Alas, the Tacoma came, the weight was lifted and the weekend was on.

However, a second major obstacle soon thwarted the brothers-three. A planned eating experience at Cooper's BBQ would have to be rescheduled due to time limitations. The plan was made by the brother Brad, bad news for the brothers Jeff and Mark. We all know when Brad's plans are altered, women and children should be hidden from view. Had Brad reacted in his normal manner, the trip would have been canceled, the tent nary unpacked and the beer never consumed. BUT! Amazingly the detour resulted in minor eruptions and the weekend was on again.

The tent was set up and the food was laid out. The brothers-three were ready for the BCT. A canoe trip awaited at four o'clock. The canoe trip was straight out of a Mark Rogers' nightmare. A crying child ruined the day for all, including the poor, poor tour guide. Her first experience as such, she'll probably never guide again. The tour was over for the brothers-three with five dramatic words: "Hey look! A dead snake!" With those words the canoe headed back to shore. The brothers headed to the cliff of death where they would find a rite of passage unlike any they had ever gone through.

The cliff of death was 50 feet tall. 50 feet from the rocks to the white water rapids. A fall ending in snake bites and broken necks. Dead fish littered the shore from acid and poison coming from the steaming rocks. Alas, the brothers-three did not fear. They climbed that rock of death and plunged to the murky, precarious waters below. When the heads reached the surface, all three brothers realized the baptism which they had just undergone. Doody dwelled in the depths, and the doody touched their skin.

Meal times were good times on the BCT. The brother Jeff went to endless trouble preparing rice, sausage and hash browns. His meals soothed the soul and stomach and brought the relaxation all were searching for. The brother Brad brought no shortage of egg whites and Myoplex bars. His meals filled to the brim and left no pleasure unturned. The brother Mark's meals were highly uncreative. Hot dogs, turkey sandwiches and snack packs littered the green Coleman cooler. His lack of preparation, however, had a reason. His lack of trouble had 27 reasons. 27 Miller Lites.

Grumpman yelled for all to hear: "Fuzzikins!!! Get your ass over- Get away from that po- Schaizie! Take that out of your damn-!!!!" All Grumpman wanted was a fun weekend, but what Grumpman failed to realize is that he brought dogs and kids with him. A combination so treacherous that even the brothers-three could see his folly. The brothers-three were just the brothers three. No wives or kids or dogs, just food, a tent, a machete and beer.

So many things to discuss and breakdown in the three nights and four days of the BCT: pending poker games and movie reed-whacking quizzes. But one thing stands out against the rest: espionage. A recon mission was performed on Friday night. It would take the brothers-three 25 minutes to get across the lake and at least that to make it back. The brothers-three were not altered. The plan was a go, the mission was on, the camp would be contaminated with the brothers' urine. And so it was, that on Sunday morning at 0230, the $26 dollar raft set out with a front oarman, a rear oarman and a motor named the brother Mark. Contact was made at 0300, and the pissing began. Off the slide and on the pool, in the cabin there slept a fool...so we peed on him.

The brothers camping trip started off with a blow out, but ended up a hit. The brothers-three each made it back to their respective wives with stories of grandeur and fame, stories of pain and laughter, and some stories that would remain secret for many years to come. The BCT will become a part of the brothers' tradition. An integral part of a sacred bond. The missing link of the life so far. Amen.

p.s. "Damnit Tootsie, getchyour ass out of the water!!!!!"
-Grumpman