Roughing It (With apologies to Mark Twain)

The Family Camping Chronicles: Part III

"On the seventeenth day we passed the highest mountain peak that we had yet seen, and although the day was very warm the night that followed upon its heels was wintry cold and blankets were next to useless."  From Roughing It  by Mark Twain

“It would be distressing to a feeling person to See our Situation at this time all wet and cold and with our bedding &c also wet, in a cove scarcely large enough to contain us…canoes at the mercy of the waves and driftwood…robes and leather clothes are rotten.”   William Clark describing being stranded at Point Ellice, Washington (1808).  (For those who slept through the day they taught about the Lewis and Clark expedition in history class, Clark was Meriwether Lewis’ expedition partner)

“We’re really roughing it,” Dad would say as he loaded our camping gear into the station wagon.  The words were served with sides of arched eyebrow, a wry smile and a large helping of sarcasm.  Dad was alluding to Roughing It, Mark Twain’s chronicle of his adventures in the Wild West of the 1860’s.  Looking back it seems like a magic trick that dad was able to get a big canvas tent, two bulky cots, lantern, fishing gear, stove, clothes, some pre-cooked meals that mom packed for us and an assorted pile of “possibles” into that wagon.

We’re a few days away from our camping adventure and I’ve just finished going through 3 airbeds and 4 air mattresses to find two that still hold air.  The mattress trial required the purchase of a battery operated pump.  Air mattresses and a pump; “We’re really roughing it.”

“Roughing it” is all relative.  I’m the first to admit that with a spacious tent, cushy air beds (please God don’t let them leak) instant starting camp stoves, electric pumps, toilets, coin op. showers and a town about 20 minutes down the road we’re just on the rustic side of a Motel 6.  For Cora this might as well be William Clark’s Point Ellice of 1808.  Then again I consider a Motel 6 to be a sort of Point Ellice of 1808 but that’s for another blog. 

Bear bagging foils a hungry bruin

In my younger days I experienced what most all of my friends and family consider “roughing it” when I went backpacking in the Sierras.  We carried on our backs our home, our kitchen and our stores.  There were no toilets save the holes that we dug.  A compass and map were necessities as were the skills to use them along with the knowledge of how to pick up a trail that suddenly seemed to vanish. Running water was a creek. Our food was the fish we caught or failing angler’s luck, freeze dried and often nasty tasting backpacking food. Once a campsite was found our food was carefully hung from a tree to foil larcenous, hungry bears.  I learned the importance of bagging all but the immediate necessities when I was sitting under a tree one afternoon eating peanuts and looked up to see a bear about a peanut’s throw away which is exactly what I did.  Happily the bear was content with my offering, took its treasure and lumbered away.

"Roughing it” is, as I said, all a matter of relativity. My own expeditions were tame compared to those of a friend of mine who would go into the back country for a week or more and only enough food for a day or two.  He relied on his fishing and gathering skills.

A short time after we were married I managed to convince Cora to take a trip into the back country.  The day  we got back she made a vow never to do that again (a promise kept) but she does speak about her backwoods adventure with pride these many years later.  It’s was an expedition that none of her friends and family ever experienced. 

 

Backpacker's campsite

The rewards of roughing it. High mountain lakeside trail. 

  A High Sierra lake

    

Yes, "roughing it" is a matter of relativity. The night before we hit the trail head on our backpacking trip, Cora and I spent one night at a public campground.  On the opposite side of a small lake was a group of campers doing their own form of “roughing it.”  They had brought with them a portable television.  The bright screen created an ugly, blinding reflection on an otherwise pretty little lake that carried the sounds of a Dallas episode right into our little tent. It's a head scratcher for me that people take the time to plan a trip to the woods and bring the worst of urban culture with them. They make it rough for those of us who take a camping trip to lose our urban selves for a short time.  Ever since that travesty I'm personally glad that someone shot JR and only regret that the shooter didn't take out the rest of the cast.

And then there was the bow hunting trip with my Uncle and Aunt and cousins.  Not a hunter I went along for the camping trip.  My aunt and uncle's form of "roughing it" required a travel trailer complete with all the comforts of home, even if they were compact and crowded.  These luxury accommodations were reserved for the older folks and small children relegating my cousins and I to a tent.  We were of course able to share in the other comforts that came with the trailer which always included a well-stocked bar, because what says American outdoor sport better than getting plowed on a hunting trip with deadly compound bows.  The daily schedule went something like this:

                 

                Early morning hunt.

                Back to camp for some Bloody Maries and screwdrivers.

                Breakfast.

                More Bloody Maries and screwdrivers.

                Play cards, tell bad dirty jokes and swear.

                Lunch.

                Drink whiskey and soda and talk.

                Sleep.

                Evening hunt.

                More whiskey and soda.

                Dinner.

                More whiskey and soda.

                Play cards, tell more bad dirty jokes and swear and drink whiskey and soda.

                Get into a drunken political argument.

                Make peace by toasting each other with a glass of whiskey and soda.

                Crawl to bed. 

The following day the ritual would repeat itself.  The booze was invariably cheap, foul smelling, brain cell killing rotgut purchased in giant economy sizes.  It was the type of swill that greets you in the morning with cotton mouth, a relentless hammering headache and makes you ooze a sweat that smells like a stale dive bar. Now that is "roughing it."

Everyone has their own definition of privation.  A coworker told me that his wife considers “roughing it” to be a hotel with room service that closes at midnight.  Friends have told me that when they were younger, they enjoyed camping but now they would prefer a 4 star hotel.  Another co-worker, a young man in his thirties shook his head at the notion of going more than a day without a shower and blanched at the thought of gutting fish.  I wanted to suggest that he turn in his man card but I kept my own counsel and wondered at the wimpification of American men, lost without the comfort of a warm bed and the security of their smart phones. 

I’d like to “rough it “ a little bit again; go backpacking and walk softly through a quiet forest that opens up to a meadow alive with the vivid colors of wildflowers.  I want to relax in the solitude of a campsite close by a chilly high mountain, snow fed lake under the nightlight of the Milky Way.  Someday maybe but today I look forward to a cushy family camping trip. 

High Sierra solitude. Dusk over a mountain lake

Photos were taken by me on various backpacking trips.