I
put out the call to the Phantomaniacs a few weeks ago for a few guest
posts. I have something I really
want to work on, but it’s just going to take more time than I
normally have to write. It’s a pet passion project – something
which may not ever even get published – but I have to do it. I’m
really excited about it and have already put it off more than I care
to.
Thankfully,
I had a few creative and talented people step up with some truly cool
entries. I told them they could write about whatever they wanted to
that wasn’t religion or politics. I didn’t even want to know what
they were writing about beforehand. I said write it, send it, and
I’ll post it.
Today’s
post comes from John and the timing is pretty amazing. I was just
speaking to Mrs. Troublemaker the other day about the possibility of
camping. I hate camping and always have, but I know at some point my
son is going to want to go. I said if we do, we’re doing it right.
Tents, sleeping bags, fires. If we’re going to be freezing cold,
uncomfortable, and scared of being eaten by wild animals we’re
going to do it right.
I used to love camping.
Now? I'm too old to sleep
on stones and roots and pine cones.
I'm to the point now that
bits of me that have been working perfectly well for the past 37
years are now broken when I wake up. I'm to the point that it takes a
hot shower and hours of moving about to get my joints moving
properly. I’m to the point that my big soft bed isn't comfy
enough.
So as I’ve gotten older
I’ve acquired better gear. No more sleeping right on the ground.
I’ve got a thin piece of synthetic fabric that forms a floor, walls
and a roof. It’s big enough for me. That’s it. My boots sleep
outside now. Lonely. It’s a good thing. Once it was so windy that
my tent tried to blow away. It was my bigger tent that had room for
me and my pack. And my boots.
A pair of Wal-Mart special steel toe work boots. 3½ pounds of cheapo leather, rubber and steel. It was so windy that the corner of my tent where I stashed my boots yanked free from where it had been nailed to the Earth. Both boots went :::thunk, thunk::: into my face. Was ok though. My face was protected by my -20º sleeping bag. The bag works wonders for keeping a body warm. Not so much protection from a pair of size 13 boots. Almost 30 years ago, on my first camp out the boys that tried to prank me found out three things. One: I slept in my boots. Two: I flail madly in my sleep. Three: size 10 boots to the face don’t feel good. What can I say? I had big feet when I was 8.
The food.
The food will do things
to you. It’s never cooked properly. It’s usually flaming hot
burnt crunchy bits floating in cold goo. It’s packed with
preservatives to ‘protect flavor’. The flavor of the bag it’s
packaged in. These additives will be what you smell when you get wind
in a few hours. Or minutes in my case. I sleep with ear plugs now.
The smallest noise will wake me. I really don’t want to be able to
hear the animal creeping up on my tent before it tears my tent open
and eats my head. I’d just die terrified that every falling leaf or
snapping twig will be the last thing I hear. The plugs also block the
sound of boy scouts talking into the small hours of the morning. The
down side to this is that they also block the sound of one’s own
flatus. They make that noise for a reason! To warm others and oneself
that bad things are pending. And it’s cold. So I have my head
tucked down inside my bag to keep my nugget warm. The result: hit in
the head. Again. Albeit with something that only felt tangible. I’m
so bundled up that I can’t get away from it. I yank my head free
from the bag and am gasping for unpolluted air. One thing one
notices when wearing ear plugs is when it goes quiet. It’s done so
now. I can hear faint whispers and then silence. In the morning the
boys are wild eyed and crazy looking. They haven’t slept.
Something, they said, had been though the campsite off and on
throughout the night. It was, they said, “gruntin’” and
“howlin’”. They’d even gone so far as to mark the times
they’d heard it. The times happened to coincide with the times I
was being beaten about the head and neck with my own expulsions. So
much for the silent but deadly.
Did I mention the cold?
I’m older than I’ve
ever been and I can’t remember. It was really cold on one trip. 25º
F with winds gusting at 30 MPH. I was unaware of the cold. I was
burrowed up like a bear hiding his face from the sun. My bag was
doing its job of keeping me warm and my sleeping mat was keeping
insulated from the rock hard ice cold ground. Comfy. Who comes up
with these pads anyway? They’re 5/16 of an inch thick and foam.
Ridged or egg crated. They don’t weigh anything. And they’re
worth that weight for the comfort they provide while I was sleeping
on a root. And a log. And a stash of acorns that wasn’t there when
I pitched the tent. And a large collection of jagged, knife edge
stones.
Everyone else was up and
moving about. Trying to get warm. Lighting stoves and fires.
Complaining bitterly about how they couldn’t sleep ‘cause it was
cold and uncomfortable. And they slept in the thru-hiker shelter.
On a smooth floor. Except
one kid. He had a mouse try to come up through a knot hole under his
bag in the night. Fourteen mice one guy caught the previous night in
the next shelter a day’s hike away. ‘S why I was not in the
shelter.
I managed to sit up in my
bag and peek outside. I could see the open side of the shelter. Two
feet off the ground was the floor. The youngest boy was standing in
his mil-spec mummy bag at the edge of the floor. Refusing to get out
of his bag.
But I’m old and I
forget stuff. Did I mention the cold? What’s the FIRST thing
everyone has to do first thing in the morning? When it’s that cold
out you need layers. Shorts, over which are thermals. Check. Heavy
pants, undershirt and thermals. Check. Long sleeve shirt, sweeter
scarf, beanie, jacket and gloves. Check. Gloves are a must for me.
Cold my hands get. Even when it’s 60º. So, gloves. You crawl your
tired, stiff, sore old backside out of the tent and spend a few
moments trying to stand up straight. You’re then reminded where you
are and how you got there. Involved a heavy lump on your back and a
lot of steep hills to walk up. Only to walk down the other side.
Rinse, repeat.
Then you squint off into
the woods and find a likely tree. You limp toward it. Trip over every
twig and stone on the way.
Once you’ve gotten to
your tree start fumbling with your fly. Have no luck. Remember your
skill of getting completely dressed in your mummy bag. From my
perspective at my keyboard in my warm house with comfy bed and
hot shower AND climate conditioned water closet I don’t see how
I’ve ever done that. Anyway. Your bumbling attempts to undo your
fly and fish your willy from your trousers so you can pee. The whole
trip to the tree you’ve been psyching yourself up. ‘Cause you
know that he’s smarter than you. You also know that he doesn’t
like the cold and will run away. The trick is to get the flow on its
way before you get it out. That way there’s no standing there with
your wick in the wind waiting for the water pressure to come up. No
line. No waiting. Whip it out, do the job, tuck it back in. He’s
back warm and comfy and happy and you’re good to go for a few
hours. But first you have to get your fly down. So you take off your
gloves and get everything undone. That takes just enough time for
your hands to freeze.
Now, all Mister Johnson
knows is that it feels like a pair of pliers with liquid nitrogen
jaws hath grasped him by the scruff of the neck. Your plumbing has
gone from outdoor to indoor ‘cause Mister Johnson has run off to
hide. The result is that you’ve snapped yourself in the plums with
your own sausage. All you can so is yelp. But the flow has started so
you pry your gentleman vegetable out and do the deed and quickly tuck
it back away. You button everything back up and rush back to the
campsite where hopefully there’s a fire and you forget the whole
episode before you‘ve gone 5 feet. You’re old remember?
I sit back down in my
tent to pack up my gear. The kid is still standing on the edge of the
shelter floor in his sleeping bag. He discovers that his need to
urinate has become acute. He shouts and bounds from the shelter and
across the campsite. It’s surreal. A 5 foot tall inch worm bouncing
across the campsite shouting. The shouting dies down and it’s quiet
in the campsite. Moments later there’s a high pitched yelp from out
in the woods. Bet he can’t wait until he’s old enough to not be
able to remember that experience.
See?
I hate camping. Thanks, John – good read and definitely something
different for Needless Things. You won’t see a lot of posts about
the outdoors around here.
-Phantom
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