Yes, you do have to endure another blog post about my canoe trip. I had a lot of time in which to write. As always I will say if you are just joining us now, you may want to start at the beginning so you get the full story of my expedition through the great outdoors.
This one is about camping. The actual tent, sleeping bag, camp fire, etc experience. It takes stamina. It takes stamina to do everything outdoors style. Stamina to sleep in the cold, on the lumpy forest floor. Stamina to eat everything boiled, canned, dried our otherwise packaged. Stamina to bathe in near arctic water temperatures with no soap and a very small hand towel that as hard as you try is never quite dry by the time you need to bathe again. Stamina to pee in the woods where you pray the whole time a mosquito or a spider or a chipmunk or a snake won’t take this opportunity to bite your exposed-ness while you struggle to find a log that won’t leave splinters in your ass. I don’t know, maybe that’s too much information, but anyone who has experienced the glories of backpacking can hardly deny it. Not that I’m complaining but you have to come prepared. I mean physically prepared, yes, but ultimately mentally prepared. It takes more than a fair amount of psychological stamina to camp. I’d like to think I have that.
Camping with my family takes a certain strain of psychological stamina. We are quirky. We have unique communication skills. We basically squabble like bickering chipmunks, getting out ideas out at once until all our muddled brains arrive at some cohesive conclusion. It’s organized chaos but as far as I can tell it hasn’t failed us yet. To the third party obsever it might seem like the blind leading the blind, but I’d like to think happily so.
Essentially, camping is just like living normally. At least on paper. Theoretically there is in fact very little difference. And for some people, there may be no difference in reality—oh! A squirrel just nearly attacked me!—ehem—but for me I can make the distinction.
Maybe all of you reading this are expert campers and backpackers and canoers. If that is the case than maybe you find the details of it uninteresting. Well…then…I really don’t know what to tell you other than maybe the next post will be more to your liking. If, however, you still decide to continue reading, you may find I have some interesting, if not particularly peculiar observations about life in a campsite.
Morning starts at dawn and I suppose always does although I am not often enough awake then to vouch for it. My grandfather is up then, like an old fox—silent and thin, he sits in the frail morning light. What does he think about in those pale morning hours with no one’s company to distract him from his own mind? Sharp as a tack, always, and one to speak his mind unfailingly, I can’t help but ponder what he does with those thoughts with no one to share them with in these brisk mornings.
My father gets up next, like a bear, big and clumsy, but endearing. Like a teddy bear come to life, he stumbles out of the tent, read for hibernation to be over. Next my aunt shifts, like a nervous rabbit, unsure if she really wants to get out of her warm bed, but sure she’ll enjoy herself (and any coffee there might be) outside of the tent.
I am not to be disturbed. 7 o’clock, maybe 7:30 and I do not stir. I do not wish to stir. The sly old fox, my grandfather, tries to lure my out with taunts and teases, my papa bear’s hearty laugh a roar of approval. I am a little snake. I do not wish to be out in the unconvincing low morning light. It is warm in my sleeping bag, my crevice, and cold outside. Why would I volunteer to throw myself into the briskness so unceremoniously? Leave me be until it is warm enough for me to bask on a sunny rock.
The fox does not subside his remarks and now the gleeful bear joins in, always chipper in the freshness of a new day. I slither out of the tent, slitty-eyed and sip on some coffee until the sun is high enough to warm my back. As warmth returns to my body, I begin to perk up, ready for the day.
We canoe all morning and stop for lunch. We divide things fairly, making sure to keep track so we have enough for the rest of the trip. Then we canoe for a few more hours until about mid-afternoon. Finding out new campsite can be difficult if there are several choices or if we don’t know exactly where we (or they) are. But after much deliberation we always find the best one.
Afternoons are quiet, lots of reading or swimming (if we can stand it) or writing (for me). Not a lot of conversation happens until libation time (also known as cocktail hours for normal people). We are opinionated people, sure, and talkative when appropriate. But we are quiet folk, and out here is quiet country and we like the slow ecstasy of the quietude.
Then libation time. We sit in front of the campsites best look out and drink a small crystal light infused cocktail. Gin for my father and I, vodka for my aunt, and whiskey for my grandfather. We sit and sip and pop peanuts and pistachios and conversation ebbs and flows.
Grandpa has ideas—lots of ideas—opinions about the world:
1. Pessimistic attitudes about society and the grievous state our food industry is in ever since he started reading Omnivore’s Dilemma. I keep telling him to keep reading because it gets more optimistic but he’s stubborn and once he has formed his opinion he doubts he will ever change it. If you haven’t read it, you should—and trust me and not my grandfather that it is not a totally hopeless look on the way the food industry.
2. Personal preferences regarding things like commercial television—specifically, “what’s that comedian’s name? Seinfeld.” He says his favorite character is Elaine, and goes on an all out backhanded compliment spree, ending with a firm “not that I’ve got the hots for her”. I can’t help bursting into laughter at this—thinking of my grandfather watching Seinfeld and laughing at Elaine’s mannerisms.
3. And of course his observations on the surrounding environs—numerous comments said between great sighs and “Oh boys”. One choice comment I jotted down was, “Got, isn’t this spectacular? We are sitting on the ground, around a fire…bullshitting”. And that’s what camping is. So simply put. And in the most delightful way. It doesn’t need the frills of a resort or hotel or day spa. You can sit around and enjoy yourself just by… bullshitting.
After libation time is dinner which is either fish or something freeze dried and brought back to life via a pot of boiling water. After that is tea and cookies and then more sitting or talking or reading or writing. Then old sly fox goes to his tent and papa bear and auntie rabbit and I tread, tired but happy, to our own.
No comments:
Post a Comment