Lassen Park camping trip ends with a whimper

There are many synonyms for cold: Frigid. Brisk. Nippy. Shivery. Icy. Glacial.

Here's another: Camping.

That's the main takeaway from a recent trip to Lassen Volcanic National Park by Mrs. Brad and me.

We decided to camp at Lassen for the first time since our sons were in elementary school. We would again stay at the ominously named Summit Lake campground, but global cooling obviously hit the region since our last trip.

How else do you explain mid-July nights that prompt whimpering?

Yes. Whimpering. You'll see.

First, the great part. Lassen Park – east of Redding, in northeastern California – is spectacular. It's one of our state's hidden treasures, a 106,000-acre park with geysers, Lassen Peak (10,500 feet!), isolated lakes and more than 150 miles of hiking paths.

It's a fantastic place to camp and relax. Until night. Then, it's a fantastic place to freeze.

Mrs. Brad and I arrived on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, with the temperature around 75. Of course, our campground was 7,000 feet above sea level.

Of course, we saw snow (in July!) in the park.

Of course, we knew it would be chilly at night.

Of course, we underestimated it.

We set up camp. We walked around the campground. We ate dinner. We built a fire. We tried to avoid getting smoke in our eyes. We went to bed at about 9:30 p.m., after watching the sky fill with stars.

As we crawled into our sleeping bags, we knew it would be chilly: The weather app on my phone told me so. We wore hoodies and put an extra blanket over our 30-year-old department-store sleeping bags. Good enough, right?

Wrong.

It was cold. It was uncomfortable. Our pillows felt like they were filled with sand (does pillow stuffing freeze?). I struggled to fall asleep and so did Mrs. Brad. After several hours, knowing the sun would soon come up, I checked my watch.

It was 11:30 p.m. Oh, no.

It got colder. I slept. I woke up. I shivered. I rolled over. I grabbed a coat and used it as an extra blanket. I slept. I woke up. I checked my watch. It was 12:15 a.m., 45 minutes after the last time I checked.

The endless night continued. Every once in a while, Mrs. Brad and I were awake at the same time and spoke. Through chattering teeth. We commiserated.

Finally, morning. Finally, sun. I  turned on our car and it was 41 degrees. It felt colder.

Soon, though, it was a glorious day, perfect for a hike (where we saw more snow!), relaxing, reading, dinner, fire, stars, bedtime.

Night No. 2 was different. I wore my big jacket to bed. I wore jeans. I wrapped a blanket around me, like a mummy. I was prepared for an endless night of cold. So was Mrs. Brad.

This time, I slept until 1 a.m. The cold only woke me four or five times the rest of the night. Mrs. Brad? Not so good. The next morning – after I got up at 6 a.m. and paced around for an hour, looking for the first patch of sun – she awoke and told me she was miserable.

How miserable?

"I woke up during the night and could hear myself whimpering."

That, thankfully, was our last night before continuing to a hotel, which had a heater, air conditioning, shower and a bed. Paradise.

We love Lassen and would do it again. But next time, we'll go in the summer when it's . . . oh, never mind. We went in July!

Perhaps it's time to update our sleeping bags.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Making my bucket list official

Climb Mount Everest. Run with the bulls. Skydive. See Stevie Wonder perform.

When people talk about their "bucket list," they usually include items like that. Our bucket lists, of course, are the things we want to do before we die. As people age, they become more aware of the bucket list. Then it recedes.

I say that because it seems that 40-year-olds talk most about bucket lists. My 85-year-old dad? Never talks about it (or perhaps he does, but has the volume on the TV turned up so loud no one can hear him).

Anyway, it's valuable for me to share my bucket list – partly because it creates a sense of accountability, partly because it might inspire someone, partly because I'm expected to turn in 500 words a week on a subject of my choice.

My bucket list is different from yours. That's because we're different. And because my bar is set low.

Here we go . . . before I die, I hope to:

• Eat at Athenian Grill.**
• See a ventriloquist perform without cringing.
• Have my teeth cleaned by the dentist without sweating through a shirt.
• Remember that the food at the Solano County Fair sounds exotic and delicious, but usually leaves me bloated and sluggish.
• Go big.
• Go home.**
• Watch a full movie on the Lifetime Network without laughing.
• Travel to Turkey . . . or eat turkey.**
• Make an actual list of buckets: Mop, water, wooden, metal. Mo . . .
• Remember whether or not there's a second "e" in judgment (or "judgement") without looking it up.
• Get to a movie early enough to see all the pre-show programming.
• Dye my hair jet black and insist that "it's always been this way."
• Rip off each side-view mirror from my car while backing out of the garage.**
• Teach my dog to poop in the toilet.*
• Watch "The Bucket List," a 2007 Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson movie.
• Drink a cup of coffee every morning for a week.**
• See the Giants, 49ers and Warriors win championships.**
• Find a loophole that allows me to retransmit, rebroadcast or make another use of the pictures, descriptions and accounts of a sporting event without the express written consent of the team or league.
• Go to a concert for an Air Supply tribute band.
• Show up late to the Air Supply tribute band's concert and explain that I was making good progress, then I got lost in love.
• Challenge a traffic ticket while wearing one of those white wigs and calling the judge "your eminence."
• Time travel to be a star of a 1970s "blaxploitation" film.
• Become the first person to officially not like Sara Lee.
• Drive away from a gas station with the gas pump still connected to my car.**
• Go to an air show at Travis Air Force Base.*
• Have Stevie Wonder see me perform.
• Get back to my birth weight.
• Write a 500-word column about my bucket list.**

(*Probably won't do this. **Have already done this.)

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

5-minute guide to political conventions

If you're like me, you're having a hard time sleeping. It's like opening day of baseball season, Black Friday, the day the new season of "Game of Thrones" starts and the day a new iPhone comes out, all rolled into one.

The political conventions start this week!

Republicans gather Monday in Cleveland, which should be (but isn't) named after Grover Cleveland, a Democrat who was our 22nd and 24th president. That's right, the Republicans are meeting in a city we associate with a Democrat.

A week later, the Democrats gather in Philadelphia, which should be (but isn't) named after Phil Mickelson, a conservative Republican golfer (is there any other kind?). That's right, the Democrats are meeting in a city that we associate with a Republican.

With the quadrennial (look it up!) pomp and circumstance, many of us have a hard time understanding what's happening. So following is a five-minute guide (depending on reading speed) to the conventions, with facts and tips:

All delegates aren't created equal. Delegates, of course, cast the votes to determine who gets to represent their party. Most are pledged to vote for certain people and most are there for the parties. But there are some special delegates, called super delegates. They have super powers, such as the ability to run through walls, stay awake during boring speeches and drink unreasonable amounts of alcohol.

Watch the roll-call vote. This is merely a formality, but it gives the state delegation leaders a chance to pimp for their state on national TV. You learn all kind of things about states as the leaders say things like, "The great state of Mississippi, which ranks 50th in education, health care, life span and drug use – but only 47th in drunken driving arrests – casts 41 proud votes for the next president of the United States, Donald Trump!" Or, "Colorado, the first state in the nation to legalize marijuana for recreational use, casts 33 votes for the next president of the United States, Hillary . . . umm . . . umm . . . are those nachos? . . . "

Lunatics make a scene. The branch of each political party (that favors mandatory gun ownership or thinks we should provide free health care to pets), gets to make a scene. Sometimes they get a speaker, but more often they create some sort of "spontaneous" demonstration that makes a home viewer wonder if it's really happening while the "normal" delegates ignore it.

Straw hats. You will almost assuredly see some. Enjoy it. You won't see them again until the 2020 conventions.

False drama. There is almost always some question about who will be the vice presidential nominee or whether there is a backroom deal – this year, that will be particularly heightened during the Republican convention, due to Trumpmania. It is always like sports rumors at the trading deadline: All smoke, no fire. It's highly unlikely Chuck Norris will be the last-minute Republican vice president replacement for Indiana Gov. Mike Pence, or that Hillary Clinton will offer to be co-presidents with Michelle Obama. But it will be rumored.

End of civility. If you like politics, enjoy the final weeks before we descend into more than four months of accusations, name-calling and mud-slinging. You think it's been ugly so far? That's nothing.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

How to assemble a great marriage plan

A friend told me recently about a Bay Area couple whose job is essentially assembling IKEA furniture for people.

It seemed insane. Assembling things? As a couple?

Then I thought about it: Mrs. Brad and I have spent many years assembling things, establishing a solid working relationship. Most furniture in our house and all the electronics have been assembled on site. I once (kind of) built a shed. She's an engineer.

Could we do what the IKEA couple does? Could that be an early retirement plan for us – a way to pick up extra money and do something together?

(Harp music plays, revealing Mrs. Brad and me in someone's living room, preparing to assemble a box of furniture parts into a beautiful IKEA product.)

Me: OK, I'll open this box and we'll get going. LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!

Her: That's not the box! That's a table. Put away the box cutters.

Me: What? Oh. Sorry, I was thinking about getting my phone to stream the Giants game. Is this the box?

Her: (Taking away the box cutter) I'll do it!

Mrs. Brad opens the box and lays out the parts. After struggling with my phone for several minutes, I grab the instructions.

Me: This doesn't make sense. It's in Spanish. Or French. Something.

Her: Find the English version. It's on there.

Me: Are you sure? Oh, here it is. Thank goodness. I thought there was eight pages of instructions. OK: Assemble the parts.

Her: I did that.

Me: OK . . . um . . .

Mrs. Brad begins assembling parts. She pulls out a tool and connects two parts.

Me: WAIT! You are supposed to attach A1 to B2. What are you doing?

Her: That's what I'm doing. I'm putting together the base.

Me: Speaking of that, the baseball game is about to begin. Do you think these people have a Bluetooth speaker for my phone?

Her: Don't worry about that. Can you hand me the wrench?

Me: (Looking through her toolbox) Is this a wrench?

Her: That's a screwdriver. A wrench looks like . . . here it is. This is a wrench.

Me: That's what I thought. I just . . .

Mrs. Brad continues to put the furniture together as I watch.

Her: Can you move? You're blocking the light. I need a Phillips screwdriver.

Me: This?

Her: No. That's a slot screwdriver. A Phillips looks like a star.

Me: That's weird. Because J.R. Phillips played for the Giants and he wasn't a star.

Her: What? Could you just get me a Phillips screwdriver?

Me: Why are you mad? He wasn't a star. ARE YOU SAYING J.R. PHILLIPS WAS A STAR?

Her: (Moving me out of the way.) Never mind. I've got it.

Me: I'm hungry. When will we be done?

Her: We just started. How can you be hungry?

Me: Why are you getting mad at me? I'm just trying to help. I had no IKEA you'd get so upset! Get it? Ikea?

Her: (Deep sigh) Can you hold this board while I attach it to the crossbeam?

Me: (After holding it for 30 seconds) How long is this going to take?

Her: The project?

Me: No, me having to hold this. My arms are tired.

Her: Poor baby.

Me: Is this still about J.R. Phillips? Because he wasn't very good. Ask anyone!

Her: Can you do me a favor?

Me: I guess so. I'm already doing all the work.

Her: Can you go outside and wait in the car?

Me: I don't understand why you're so mad about J.R. Phillips. I had no ikea a you liked him so much. Get it?

Her: GET OUT!

I slink out, secretly happy to listen to the game in the car.

I guess it wouldn't work. But it would be weird that she'd be so ignorant about J.R. Phillips, right?

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

I hate loud noises, explosions . . . and cats

Editor's note: Brad Stanhope is on vacation. Sitting in this week is his dog, Brandy, an 8-year-old Weimaraner.

Hey, everybody. How's it going? It's been a little rough for me. More like ruff, right?

Hahaha howwwwwwwwl.

Anyhoo, the last few nights have been difficult. I mean it's always a little tough at night because the cats wander around and I see shadows through the sliding glass door that may be cats.

I hate cats. Because they're dumb.

Did you hear about the cat who was asked whether he liked his can of food cut into six or 12 chunks? He said, "Six. I couldn't eat 12." Hahaha howwwwl.

That's a great one. Cats are dumb. My neighbor Scruff told me that through the fence. Then we started fence wrestling, which really angers She Who Pets Me.

But Scruff is hilarious. He tells me new ones every day. Or the same ones. My memory isn't that great.

Anyhoo, back to the roughness.

Am I the only one who notices that there are a lot of loud noises at night this time of year? And by this time of year, I mean . . . I don't know. I can't really keep track of time.

I'm like the cat who knocked an alarm clock off the shelf, because he wanted to see time fly!

Haha.

What's an alarm clock? Scruff said that was funny, so it probably is. But I don't know.

Anyhoo, the loud noises and bright lights in the sky drive me crazy this time of year. Boom! Bang! Rat-a-tat! Sparkle!

I don't know what's going on, but I can't stop from howling, which makes He Who Feeds Me and She Who Pets Me both yell.

It's a weird time. The other day, I chased this cat up the tree, then Scruff told me the cat was so dumb that he climbed the tree because he thought it would raise his IQ.

Hahaha howwwwwwl.

What's IQ?

But back to the loud noises and sounds . . . wait a second . . . there's somebody up front . . . HEY YOU GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! OUT OF MY DRIVEWAY! GET AWAY! GET AWAY! . . . umm . . . never mind. It was the neighbor. I thought it was a mailman.

Anyway, did you hear about the dumb cat? By that, I mean all cats? Anyhoo, this cat thought Meow Mix was a cassette tape with songs.

Haha hoooowwwwwl!

Get it? I don't. What's a cassette tape? Whatever it is, I bet it's funny!

But here's what's not funny: The loud noises and explosions in the air. He Who Feeds Me and She Who Pets Me both say it will be over soon, but I don't believe them. They also told me to ignore Scruff at the fence, but if I'd done that, I wouldn't know all those cat jokes.

Like that one cat who took a blood test and failed.

Get it? I don't.

But . . . let me go roll in the grass, because my back itches. Grrrrr . . . grrrrrr.

Oh. Much better. Let me stretch out and yawn. There, that's nice. That's sooooo nice.

Ahhhhh.

What was that? Did you hear that? Sounds like barking!

Hoooowwwwwwwl! Hooooowwwwl!

I'm going to patrol the fence area, to make sure everything is where it should be. Come along.

Which reminds me, did you hear about the cat who thought Snoop Dogg was a real dog?

Hahaha.

What is Snoop Dogg? Not a dog, apparently.

Anyhoo, I hate the loud noises. They're almost as bad as cats, who are so dumb, they paint garbage cans brown and orange so they can pretend they're eating at A&W. Hahahaha.

I don't know my colors.

I don't know what A&W is.

I like to eat garbage.

But I bet that's funny.

Brandy Stanhope is the longtime pet of Brad Stanhope. Reach her at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.