Lugging a 30 pack of beer up Mt Marcy in the Adirondacks,
forgetting to bring flashlight batteries,
forgetting to bring rain jackets,
getting soaked in the rain,
getting lost in the dense Adirondack forest,
getting stuck in a slimy bog and sinking waist deep,
pulling into the bog a philanthropic friend who tries to rescue you,
seeing imaginary lights in the forest and hearing imaginary voices to make you believe you have reached the mythical campsite,
finally, pitching the tent on the trail in the middle of nowhere since the campsite has not and most probably, will not materialize,
reading tent-pitching instructions, illuminated by a cigarette lighter,
climbing up a tree in the dark with a friend giving you directions from below to hang your bags of food on the tree in case a bear should make an appearance,
curling up in your sleeping bag, massaging raw, bruised shoulder, while muttering curses at the jackass whose idea it was to bring a 30 pack of beer on the hike,
waking up in the morning to find a cold clear mountain spring running through the tent,
chilling the cans of beer in the cold water of the mountain spring,
drinking this chilled beer for breakfast,
weaving your way down Mt Marcy in a state of mountain-stream-chilled-beer state of inebriation.
singing praises of the jackass whose idea it was to bring a 30 pack of beer on the hike.
That, my friends, is karma.
Or something like it.