For years, my idea of “roughing it” was staying in the Super 8 as opposed to the Holiday Inn. Camping was out of the question. For one thing, I never have been able to figure out why, for a part of the world that experiences a hard freeze several months of the year,Minnesota has a disproportionate share of mosquitoes. I’m also given to understand that certain people are more attractive to mosquitoes than others. I am one of those people. So, for me, camping has always been about the tradeoff between hot, sticky, and smelly (i.e. tent closed as tight as possible, hunkered down with head in sleeping bag) versus being better ventilated but with exposed skin. In general, I’ve discovered that I’m one of those people who prefers comfort over annoyance.
I first made this self-discovery as a youthful camper. A neighbor friend and I would set out from our houses for a several mile trek along the Little Cannon River to his grandparents’ farmstead. There, we’d pitch a tent overnight by the river flats, start a campfire to grill some weenies, and spend the night, all within easy walking distance of the comforts of his grandparents’ house.
The tent was an old canvas army surplus model that may have seen service in WWII. It smelled of some sort of waterproofing material – probably creosote. It had no floor and thus was neither bug nor moisture proof. I really don’t know why we insisted on camping so close to the river where both moisture and mosquitoes were most prevalent. In fact, I’m convinced it was only misplaced pride that prevented us from roasting our weenies and then going back to the farmhouse to crawl into bed.
We also would occasionally use this tent for backyard campouts. Maybe the creosote addled our brains because in retrospect I have no idea why we thought this was preferable to a normal indoor sleepover without bugs and odor – and with Doritos and TV.
My only other youthful “camping” experience was church camp. For several years I went to Shores of St. Andrews Lutheran Church camp inWest-central Minnesota. As is typical of these sorts of places, the intent, I think was to keep all of us pre-adolescents interested and occupied while simulating wholesome experiences so our parents could feel good about shipping us off for a week or two. I think my antipathy toward church camp was because I had no real interest in, nor aptitude for any of the camp-like skills. I was not a strong swimmer, would swamp a canoe or, worse, a kayak (without being able to right it), and was a hopeless volleyball player. I did, however, play a mean game of tetherball.
I carry only two strong memories from church camp. One is of a particular song that, I am amazed, others also learned around similar church campfires in other parts of the country. Apparently “Up in the Air, Junior Birdmen,” complete with the hands-as-goggles gesture, was a church camp staple.
The other memory is of the bunkhouse accommodations. While not made of canvas, they were no better ventilated and were hardly bugproof. What’s the point of constructing an actual wooden building if you are not going to install adequate screens?
It was little wonder that I reached adulthood not predisposed to camping. And my initial adult experiences were no more positive. My son had a limited run as a Cub Scout, but during that period we did manage to have an overnight father/son bonding experience at a local scout camp. “Camp” is a bit of a misnomer. We were outside, true, but in the wilderness not exactly. This camp was a well-worn patch of land on Lake Byllesby(coincidentally) near my home town of Cannon Falls. Our particular weekend turned out to be the hottest weekend of a very hot summer.
The “tents” were supplied by the camp. They basically were large canvas structures erected over wooden platforms that slept 4 to 6 people on cots. The canvas could be closed to make the structure marginally bug tight, but would also make it a hermetically sealed sauna. The lesser of two evils was to leave the flaps open, allowing for some cross ventilation, and take our chances with the bugs. Once again, camping was little more than the forced choice between competing discomforts.
We would have slept little that night regardless, but in the middle of the night, it seemed like we were in some sort of war zone with helicopters zooming overhead. We learned the next day that someone (not affiliated with the camp) had drowned in the lake the night before and the helicopters were part of the search and rescue operation. Andy and I were thus only marginally alert for bonding over the range of wholesome camp-related activities. Even so, we didn’t swamp the canoe or totally humiliate ourselves in games. I did learn that Cub Scouts do not sing “Up in the Air, Junior Birdmen” and Cub Scout sons get embarrassed if someone asks about it.
I was not totally opposed to the outdoors as a matter of principal. During the early years of our marriage when we lived in Ithaca, NY, Laura and I spent many happy weekend days hiking the gorge trails around the Finger Lakes. My opposition was more narrowly focused to sleeping on or near the ground or in sweltering heat or in exposed proximity to insects.
My position vis-à-vis camping has changed gradually over time as a result of many factors. First, I’ve realized that there are places in this world worth seeing that only can be seen well by people willing to sleep on the ground. Second, I’ve become more fit with age. I’m more capable of reaching these places and the ground does not seem quite so hard. Third I’ve discovered the joys of early or late season camping where the bugs are immobilized by cold while the campers try to avoid a similar fate. Finally, I’m a closet pyromaniac who likes to start campfires as an excuse to see things burn.
And, OK, I love the gadgets. There’s something about being able to collapse everything needed for housekeeping and pack it into a bundle that you can carry on your back. We haven’t quite mastered the challenge of keeping that bundle under 50 pounds – food is pretty heavy and is good to eat – but still, we can be completely portable.
The other thing that has changed in recent years is that insect repellent technology has improved dramatically. Truth is, in an ironic twist, my back to nature experiences most often involve coating myself head to toe in extra strength DEET. I’m sure this counteracts much of the positive health value associated with the experience, but we all make our accommodations. Actually, I rely on DEET and petrochemically reinforced synthetic materials to stay waterproof. Both were tested on one of our most recent trips.
Last summer Laura and I went on a 4 day, 3 night stroll through a remote area of the boundary waters wilderness. Joining us was another couple who frequently are our camping companions (and the people who patiently have taught us how to camp and enjoy it). The route was around 2 lakes and by another lake on trails that got little use.
Day one was a harbinger. No sooner did we get out of our car at the trailhead than we were descended upon by flocks of hungry mosquitoes. I’m not talking about a few critters landing on our arms. I’m talking about mosquitoes so thick the air whined. It was like we were in a giant version of one of those test chambers used in the “Off” commercials to demonstrate the effectiveness of the product.
I have never applied DEET so liberally with so little effect. The mosquitoes would bite through clothing and find areas that were insufficiently coated – like my ear canal. It was also a very hot, sticky day, meaning that the repellent had a hard time staying in place. It was more likely to stream down my face, into my eyes and mouth, ensuring that I would get no bites on my eyeballs or tongue, but leaving my forehead somewhat exposed.
We got independent confirmation that we weren’t just being wimpy about the bugs when, on our last day, we encountered another hiker in full jungle-hiking regalia. He was covered from head to toe in a protective suit and had a hat with mosquito netting around his face. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him utter, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume.” I’m not sure his outfit was any more effective than my chemical coating, but it probably was more healthy – albeit mildly embarrassing for the wearer (I should think).
On day two of the hike, the bugs were much better because the torrential rain prevented them from landing anywhere other than under our hats. We had a limited area to protect and, frankly, were so intent on keeping our feet dry that we forgot about the insects. In the best of circumstances, one can easily lose oneself in the sounds of the northern forest. On this day, not so. We hiked to a combination of the constant drumbeat of rain accompanied by the nearby whine of mosquitoes.
Despite the downpour, we were doing fine until we encountered a stream inconveniently in our way. As one might surmise by the profusion of mosquitoes, this already had been a particularly wet period for this area. Thus, the stream, which normally was a trickle from one lake to another, was already pretty fast and deep and getting more so. While we knew the general direction we needed to go, there was no discernable trail that would allow dry passage – it probably was under water. Our only option was to barrel straight across hoping at least to keep from falling down and completely soaking all our gear.
If we had fallen, it wouldn’t really have mattered anyway, given how soaked we were. The only difference was that we now carried bootsful of stream water with us the rest of the day. By the time we got to our second night campsite, absolutely nothing was dry. Fortunately, we had a rain tarp we could hang, and I could spend the rest of the day trying to nurse a wet fire along. My three soaked companions were mostly indulgent of my efforts, but the effect under the tarp was more smoky sauna than warm and dry.
The problem with getting everything wet on day two of a four day hike is that it never really dries. It just gets dirty, and smoky, and kind of gross (actually, really gross). That’s also a blessing because you reach an “oh hell” sort of tipping point where you stop caring about being dry or clean or even comfortable. You just keep loading on the DEET and enjoying the view.
Maybe ultimately I’ve come to like camping for the same reasons I used to avoid it. It’s ok periodically to be reminded that things could be worse and, frankly, a little adversity or suffering may be a good thing. Admittedly, what I am describing here is an upper middle class form of adversity and suffering. To even have the resources and free time to think about camping is a privileged position. This is not exactly man versus nature in the classic sense, particularly since the beasts I battle most are less than a quarter inch long.
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