Friendship Campground

By Steve Kent

Sarah and I went on a hike Saturday. We drove up Logan Canyon to Right Hand Fork, which we followed until it turned into the Left Hand Fork of Blacksmith Fork Canyon. I don't know why they throw that extra "fork" in the last one. I think they should just call it Blacksmith Canyon, but I guess I didn't find it, so I don't get to name it.

The maples were on fire in Logan Canyon, figuratively (thankfully, since it's been such a bad year for fires). They were a nice, dark red. The kind of red on Calvin's wagon. Right Hand Fork was already a dusty tan color, and we stopped at a crossroads with hunters on it. I noticed our tires were a little low. Luckily, we got a battery with jumper-cables, tire pump, spotlight and USB ports built in for our wedding (thanks, Sid and Paula). We named it Bruce.

As Bruce buzzed around on the dirt, filling our tires, I lectured Sarah on hiker safety during hunting season. According to the rules of hunting, unless you're wearing fluorescent orange, you're fair game. I forgot our orange at home, so I told Sarah to look less delicious and duck if she saw hunters.

The trail was dry, and while it had a few bumps, our Ford Focus made it through like a champ. If you drive through in your sedan, the worst hazard on the trail will be the stink-eye from hunters in massive pickups who were feeling tough until they saw you in your Ford Focus.

A few miles from Left Hand Fork Road, we stopped at a small campground for the hike portion of our hike. We saw stepping stones in a line across the stream, pointing to a dusty slope. The slope led to the foot of a light-brown cliff, slightly overhanging. We hopped across, and sure enough, we found bolted climbing routes. I couldn't see the anchors, so I wanted to hike around and rappel off the top to find them, but Sarah objected. We hiked around anyway, but didn't find the anchors. There were a couple of dry old trees at the top. Trusting them as a natural anchor would be like handing the rope to a wily old man and telling him not to let go.

On the slope, we saw a pheasant, the size, shape and color of a football. I might have kicked him, but I was trying to be stealthy so I wouldn't get shot, and I've never been that good at football.

As we drove toward Hyrum on Left Hand Fork Road, we passed Friendship Campground. There was nobody in it. There were people in the miles all around it: people swarming around on ATVs; people brushing down horses; people squinting through rifle sights, checking for orange trucker hats. You can't blame the campers for spreading out, though. We passed enough camp sites up Left Hand Fork to accommodate the entire population of Hyrum, with room left over for Nibley.

I figure some day, when Sarah and I are feeling friendly, we'll go back and pitch our tent in Friendship Campground. And if the ATVs bother us, I'll hook Bruce up to some speakers and play "Have You Ever Heard a Digital Accordion" by the Lovely Eggs until they leave.