Simple Observations-Camping

   



      There are people in this world who were meant to live in the great outdoors.They can survive in a harsh and brutal environment far from civilization with little more than their skills and determination. On the other side are people like me. I get terrible headaches if I don’t get my morning Starbuck’s cappuccino, and will quickly move into a hotel if the air conditioning breaks down.The closest I come to nature is when I work in my garden. Even then I’m often chased inside by some of the biggest and most vicious rabbits you’ll ever see.


    A few years ago while researching my family history it was revealed that I might possibly be a distant relative of Daniel Boone. We all know him from our history books as a famous American pioneer, explorer and frontiersman. I found any relation to Daniel Boone hard to believe given my own pitiful outdoor skills. I decided to visit a genealogy research firm which specializes in tracking down family lineages and histories. It turns out that I actually was related to a Daniel, but it wasn’t Daniel Boone. His name was Daniel B-o-n-e. He was an immigrant from England who settled in what is now modern day Ohio, around 1788. Against the wishes of his family, and with little wilderness skills he started a homestead in a dangerous and isolated area along the Cuyahoga river. A few weeks after settling into his homestead, Daniel Bone mysteriously disappeared. Search parties found footprints leading from the cabin to a nearby outhouse, and off into a vast expanse of woodlands. Daniel Bone must have become disoriented, subsequently lost and was never seen or heard from again.


    You can imagine my trepidation, when a few weeks later my wife informed me that she wanted to take a family camping trip. Unlike me, my wife has acquired a love and respect for nature, along with extensive and formidable camping skills. If you were to take my wife to the middle of the Alaskan wilderness hundreds of miles from the nearest town and drop her off with only the following items: a box of matches, a hunting knife, a single can of spam, a gallon jug of water, and a roll of toilet paper, she would not only survive, but would return a few weeks later refreshed and ready for her next adventure. I, on the other hand could be dropped off in a local park three miles from my home with four experienced guides, and fifty pack horses loaded with a year’s supply of food and equipment. Even with a GPS unit strapped to my back, my chances of survival would be slim to none.


      I often wonder who invented modern day camping. Were a group of guys sitting around a TV watching football and drinking beer? Did one of the brighter ones come up with the brilliant idea? I can picture him standing in front of a group of testosterone and beer-filled buddies as he explained his wonderful idea.


“Guys, how about we load all this beer in my car. Maybe throw a tent in the back along with some cans of beans and spam, and a couple bags of marshmallows. We can drive way up in the mountains to an isolated campsite. We’ll wear the same clothes for days, give up showers and shaving, fight off bears with sticks, huddle against the cold with only our own body heat to keeps us warm, and relieve ourselves behind trees."


    In order to slowly ease me into the camping experience, it was decided that our first excursion would be at a campsite a few hours away. The trip would only last a few days. As my wife and son meticulously packed our car, I questioned her on the obvious lack of essentials. She sternly informed me that pillows, a queen-size mattress, a back massager, a TV with  remote control, and a small refrigerator filled with Coors light were not essentials. Watching as the last of the gear was stowed on the roof of the car I was amazed at how over six hundred pounds of food and equipment fit into our small SUV.  Every available inch of our vehicle was filled, leaving just enough room for the three of us to squeeze in, and begin a journey which hopefully wouldn't be my last.


      About two hours into our trip I noticed a subtle change as the flat, level grasslands we had been passing through gave way to a steady rise, and the appearance of woodlands. The woodlands soon gave way to forests with massive oak and pine trees, which towered above our vehicle as the angle of our ascent dramatically increased. I soon felt an irritating popping in my ears. My wife informed me this was a result of drastic altitude changes. As I alternately drove with my right and left hand so as to leave a hand free to poke and prod at my ears, my wife informed me that the feeling would soon pass.


    After a four hour trip, an extra-large Dunkin Donuts coffee, three bathroom breaks, lunch and multiple verses of one-hundred bottles of beer on the wall, we arrived at our destination. Climbing up the side of an enormous mountain at a sedate fifteen miles per hour, the road slowly changed to a single lane, stone covered path. As our car slowed further, and we craned our necks out the car windows, we almost missed a small, weathered sign marking the entrance to “The Happy Camper Campgrounds."  Aren’t the words happy camper considered to be what’s called an oxymoron? To me the words happy and camper should never be used in the same sentence. Passing the sign we pulled into a narrow dirt road choked with weeds. After at least a mile of alternating potholes and bumps the road ended at a small log cabin. Hanging on a tree branch outside was a simple sign with the words office written in large, hand-written letters.


    My first thought as I got out of the car and surveyed our home for the next few days was of a movie I had seen years ago. I think it was called “Friday the Thirteenth." I remember it being about a homicidal maniac who brutally and efficiently picked off unwary and clueless campers at a campsite which looked eerily like the one I was standing in. I could almost imagine that at any moment, stumbling, screaming teenagers would come running past us, pursued by a seven- foot killer wearing a hockey mask. As he brandished an ax, or an impossibly long machete they would trip, fall to the ground and await their fate.


    To be honest, I wasn’t very scared. I figured that Jason Voorhees, the lead character in the movie had nothing on my wife. Legend has it that years ago on a trip in the Alaskan wilderness she had subdued, and drove off a massive grizzly bear which had the nerve and the audacity to look at her the wrong way. I did learn one important lesson though as we left the office after paying for our camp site. I learned that supposedly intelligent, sane people will spend $38.50 per night to rent a fifty by fifty-foot piece of dirt and rock that makes the lunar landscape look like the Bahamas.


    As I finished off the last, cold Coors light beer within a hundred miles, I watched my wife with admiration and a little envy as she unloaded and set up our tent in record time. Leaving my wife and son to unpack the last of the gear, I headed on a half-mile walk to what I learned were called the communal showers and bathrooms. I was soon to learn that communal meant sitting on a wooden toilet in a shed-like structure next to a man named Ed, from Boise, Idaho. Ed, while enjoying the great outdoors, had been subsisting for weeks on a diet of chili, baked beans and more chili. I didn’t even want to think about the showers.


    On my return trip to our campsite I couldn’t help but notice the abundance of wildlife. This included many new and exotic species of birds. I was glad my wife had allowed me to pack my binoculars. Over the years I had gradually become a fairly knowledgeable and enthusiastic bird watcher. Returning to camp and procuring my binoculars, I proceeded to view some of the large, strange birds. They were nothing like the birds which visited my back-yard bird feeder. These were large and black like common crows, but with smaller heads. Their feathers were not a dull black, but had an iridescent shine. Their wings were large and narrow. Instead of trilling or whistling they made a high buzzing sound, almost like a bee. As I continued to stare at the strange birds my concentration was interrupted by my wife. In a flat, calm voice, she informed me that those were not birds, but rather mosquitoes. She also mentioned if I wanted to see the coming dawn, I should grab a stick, run for the tent and pray that we hadn't forgotten to pack the bug spray.


    After a tiring and eventful day in the great outdoors, it was nice to finally get a good night's sleep. I soon found that a restful sleep was going to be challenging as I lay on my back staring at the green canvas ceiling of the tent.  I tried and failed to doze off as a large and pointed rock relentlessly stabbed my back through a thin and inadequate sleeping bag.  Across the tent in a soft patch of dirt, I could hear my wife and son gently snoring as they snuggled in their thick and comfortable sleeping bags. The temperature continued to drop, and the howls of what sounded like wolves echoed through the forest. I imagined that my wife would awake in the morning to find my stiff and frozen body lying motionless in the far corner of the tent. It got so cold on that first night, I swear I heard the sound of sleigh bells overhead, accompanied by hearty laughter. After maybe two hours of fitful sleep, a sore and aching back, and possible frost-bite on my extremities, I finally witnessed the first rays of light creeping across the top of the tent. As I lay there, cold, hungry, dirty, unshaven, and dreading a race to the communal bathroom,  I vowed that the next night would be different.


    A breakfast of what looked like fried spam mixed with some type of eggs and a mug of black and bitter coffee did little to lift my spirits. I informed my wife that I would take the car, and find some ice for the coolers as well as more spam. As my wife and son headed into the forest for a day of hiking, I rolled up the windows of the car, turned the air-conditioning to high and switched on the radio. The only station available played the latest and most popular polka songs. Tapping my feet to the rhythmic sounds of Walter Ostanek, Happy Louie and the Larry Chesky Orchestra I headed out in search of salvation.


    At this time I have only four words to say, "Thank God for Wal-Mart!" Not ten miles from our campsite, I found a small town nestled in a valley between two towering mountain peaks. Heading down a narrow two-lane road I was greeted by a sign that said, “Welcome to Imlost Population 18." The town consisted of a gas station, a tiny diner called Momma’s and a Wal-Mart Super Center. I’ve heard it said that there are only three things in life that are certain; taxes, death and the availability and low prices of Wal-Mart. I can almost believe that when Columbus reached the new world, realizing that he was low on food and water, and needing provisioning for his return trip to Spain, he sent his men out to find a conveniently located Wal-Mart.


      Wandering the aisles with credit card ready, I couldn’t help but notice the customers around me. There must have been a least forty or fifty middle aged men frantically running through the store. Each was pushing a cart piled high with an assortment of every comfort known to modern man.  All the men were not only wearing mismatched clothing, but they all looked tired, dirty and unshaven. I witnessed a near riot in the medicine aisle as three or four men frantically fought over the last package of back-ache relief medication. I guess I wasn’t the only one to have a rough night's sleep. Leaving the store, I loaded my purchases into the car. My list of necessary comforts included: a kerosene heater, air mattress, sleeping bag, four heavy blankets, two pillows, a lawn chair, a big cooler, ice, a case of beer, five bags of chips, a baseball bat, and a pair of running shoes. The bat was for the mosquitoes. The running shoes were for me, just in case my wife wasn't pleased with my purchases.


      Returning to our campsite I could see that my wife and son had not yet returned from hiking. I decided to put on my new running shoes, relax in my comfortable lawn chair and have a few beers. I kept the baseball bat close by, just in case any mosquitoes returned. Approximately two hours and seven or eight beers later, things become a little fuzzy. I vaguely remember either Jason Voorhees or my wife returning to the campsite. It really didn’t matter which one it was, I was in big trouble either way. I do remember trying to run, but finding that my legs wouldn’t work. I also noticed the baseball bat was now in my wife’s hands. She was swinging it back and forth with such skill as to make Babe Ruth jealous. Things went a little blank after that. I do remember spending another cold, lonely night with a small blanket and a sharp rock as my only friends. I awoke the next morning to a splitting headache, a cold breakfast, a fully loaded car, a long trip home, and memories of my first, and possibly last family camping trip.


    Eventually, my wife forgave me. My local florist though did run out of roses, and my hands are still calloused from doing housework, but hey, that’s marriage. On the bright side, my son and wife did have a good time, and unlike my long lost ancestor Daniel Bone, I did survive to tell this story. Now, excuse me, but I need to finish my cappuccino, and turn up the air conditioner. It’s getting a little warm in here.