I never laugh out loud while painting as much as I do when painting stories from Tarin and I's pilgrimage. This one had me not only cracking up but also crying, much like the trail in question. We had set out for the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when we came across the fork in the lower left quadrant, no where to be found on our map. Having scouted both directions we set off to the right because it was more in the direction our trail was supposed to be headed, and it had to be right? Right? Wrong.
13 miles later we strolled right back into the same camp ground boulder-circle we'd passed that morning having come a complete all-day circle.
After a good cry and a melted hershey bar we had to squeeze like toothpaste through the opened corner of the plastic, we knew we had to keep going but weren't excited to be carrying our bags any further. I'd convinced Tarin I needed something else to do for even just a few minutes. So we used our camp cord and a series of logs scavenged from the old forest nearby to build a toboggan to aid in the rest of our now very long day's journey. The toboggan, made from very shoddy wood indeed, only made it about 20 yards (pictured also in the lower left quadrant) before breaking but it was enough of a break that we managed to continue into the Riggins valley and clear down the valley walls to french creek by 10 am the next day.