This has happened twice to me during my lifetime. A kitten has gotten away from its owner and climbed a large tree in a campground.

The first time a pesky kitten climbed a tree in my own back yard. My neighbor stopped by and pointed out the trouble.

“The kitten is about 30 feet up the tree, see it up there?” the officer responding was told.

“What is your plan?”

“Google was consulted and leaving a cat up the tree will make it hungry and when hungry it will come down for food,” the officer was told. My plan was not conceivable, as the officer kept looking at me and then at his partners and at me again.

When they both left the restaurant and were around the corner, they let out the largest and loudest holler/bellow/shout/scream, which could be heard from three blocks around the corner.

And then they bumped into old-red-Bar-Snip Jones. Bar-Snip was his only nickname, as it was discovered as they rounded the corner. How did you know his name? Well my listening was keener than yours, was my answer.

Unfortunately, my partners this trip were Eagle-Eye Feige and Heavy Hitter Sumner.

We were at the south edge of the Spokane River, which we were allowed to fish any waters to the south. The south edge of the river put us near the very beginnings of Seven Bays, soon to become the great Resort of Seven Bays.

Camping in this area provided us a bit of prestige or status when we returned home the following Monday.

Most others would stay away from camping or even traveling through this section of the map known as Missing-Hiker One Camp and Missing-Hiker Two Camp. You see, there was a time when we accidentally stumbled across crawdads in Crab Creek.

“Hey, what you fellas doing down there?” The other sound was coming from across a small creek.

We tried shutting him up or at least tried to quiet him down a bit, so the others wouldn’t hear all the hollering and such.

“Well, if you make it to me, this-away, you’re gonna meet with the fightin’ end of an old .30-06.”

A glance at Dean showed he was about to cry anyway, so we spilled our guts to this stranger, who by all accounts was actually holding a rifle.

“Look, there ain’t no use of fretting none,” he said. “Just trying to scare those other four off.

“Scare off,” Heck, we thought you were the old man who lived here hired by the locals to keep people out of this area.

Next week: The story about the campsites.