NOT LOCAL —Deluge Camping—

My life is so tragic that I used to schedule two hours first thing every morning to cry my eyes out, but that got old after a while, so I decided to stop hanging around with poets. It was more fun to look back and laugh. So I suppose that makes me a humorist.

One tragic thing about my youth was that my Mom didn’t like camping. My Dad did a foolish thing, which was to take her camping on their honeymoon. He thought he might open her eyes to the beauty of nature. It poured. Years later, when he was a little wiser, he took her to the Caribbean. She stepped on a poisonous sea-urchin. Come to think of it, maybe Nature didn’t like my mother. When my Dad took her out mackerel-jigging she caught a sea-gull. It squawked and flapped about her face at the end of a hand-line, and she indignantly concluded only fools found joy in mackerel fishing. Nor did she like anyone finding joy in her discomfiture, but Dad did a foolish thing, which was to laugh.

After the divorce I was very careful to avoid the topic of camping. I was a sort of barefoot, suburban Huckleberry Finn, illegally fishing and skinny-dipping in the water supply of Harvard professors, and was briefly arrested at age eleven, but the officer had compassion and didn’t tell Mom. I had many other wonderful adventure that I didn’t dare share with Mom (at least until a sort of statute of limitations had passed) for I had concluded there were two types of people in the world. There were those who didn’t like camping…

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…and those who did.

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Back in my days as a bachelor and bum I did a lot of camping, for a tent was cheaper than an apartment. In 1987 I camped from May 1 to October 23. This presented me with a bit of a dilemma, for if I didn’t write my Mom she’d worry, (and I usually couldn’t afford a phone call.) The letters I then produced were masterpieces in the fine art of censorship. Every day camping was a sunny day, and rain was never mentioned.

After I surprised everyone by marrying and settling down, I got a surprise of my own, for it turned out my wife’s mother did like camping. I didn’t know that was legal for Moms to do, but she’s gone right ahead and done it.

As a young mother of five with a hot home, too poor to afford a summer house, she had moved to a campground by a lake each summer, perhaps to escape the heat or perhaps to escape vacuuming the house. Her husband would commute to work from the campground, and the kids rode their bicycles about and fished and swam to their hearts content. They don’t seem to remember any rain. The mother didn’t know what she was starting. It became a yearly event.

This year the lady, in her eighties, sat back and happily regarded her daughter and three sons, their four spouses, ten grandchildren, four grandchildren-in-laws, two step-grandchildren, two step-grandchildren-in-laws, six great-grandchildren, and two step-great-grand children, and likely thought about the ones who couldn’t make it this year.

It rained, of course. It seems to rain every year, but we count on the rain, and one of the first things we do is stretch out tarps between trees. I am proud to state I was the one who started this great tradition in 1991, and as the years have passed it has become a sort of art, as we’ve learned by making all sorts of mistakes. A tarp can turn into a spinnaker in a strong wind, and snap ropes, and also a tarp also can turn into a massive udder if  it catches rain and sags. Now we have learned all sorts of remedies, one of the best of which is to get old, so you can sit back and watch others clamber about in trees.

Only once did I arise this year, as the wise old man,  to show them the trick of tying a rope to a hammer and tossing it up over a branch, so you can skip the climbing, (which I didn’t learn until I was pushing fifty and getting tired of bringing an aluminum extension ladder camping, and saw a friend who was lazy demonstrate the hammer trick).  This year no one had a hammer so they used a hatchet. It added risk to the enterprise.

In the end we were ready for the rain. Here’s my area:

and here’s the main gathering area:

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In the old days we only had tents, and looked down our noses at RV’s, but a son and brother-in-law have gotten soft, and I must admit I don’t mind a bit of softness myself, though I can’t afford a RV. We also only cooked over wood fires in the old days, and while we still do a bit of that (under the high part of the tarp), the younger folk haul in all sorts of smokers and newfangled propane gadgets. I don’t complain, when faced with a spread like this:

I’m not sure we could have done as well if the winds had been high. Around five years ago we gathered in the gusty deluge of a former tropical storm, and as I recall we put off the gorging until the next day, but this year the feast was prepared despite downpours. It was interesting to see the smaller girls incorporate the water coming off the tarp into their play.

My wife strongly believes that, to acclimatize grandchildren to camping, you need to break them in early.

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We’ve been camping in the rain so long, nearly thirty years now, that we’ve watched an entire generation go from being this small to being stronger and richer than we are. I like to just sit back and contemplate the passage of time, but did get up and take part in a game of whiffle-ball when the rain let up for a bit, and now rue my brief ambition.  Within hours I was walking funny. But the former boys are now strapping young men who don’t stiffen up so quickly, and who itch for challenges, such as jumping into rivers from high places and being carried downstream.

This river is the Ashoelot, a geologically interesting backwater that flows down a channel made by a glacial flood. Usually it is fairly shallow,  but all the rain had its waters rising.Camping 9 IMG_7106


When we first arrived my dog L.C. (short for “Lost Cause”), (Animal Rights Activists think I’m calling her “Elsie”), had a great time annoying herons and geese on the river, which was a little higher than usual.

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But the clear, tea-colored water had risen three feet and turned to coffee by the second day.

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By the third day it had risen three more feet and gone dark again, and had the spin-drift suds that sometimes indicate pollution, but can also be natural, in swampy rivers.  The campground owner said the water was as high as he’d ever seen it. Driftwood shifted, with its colonies of greenery and crimson blooms.

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The men were smart enough to know you can’t jump in at the usual place, if you are unsure if driftwood has moved in, so they sent my nine-year-old  grandson down to swim around and see if he could feel any branches with his toes. The cheerful, young, eager-to-please chump fellow checked out the entire area under the embankment, which usually is around twelve feet tall. He said it was all clear. Then they asked him if the water seemed colder, and he shrugged innocently and said, “Maybe a little.”

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I wish I could show you the video of whqat followed. You see six big brawny men dash to the edge of the bank and leap whooping out into the river, make a tremendous splash, and then their heads emerge and they all simultaneously register the fact the water is twenty degrees colder. Not so manly, all of a sudden. As they drifted downstream you could have heard the shrieking a mile away.  (I looked suspiciously at my grandson. He was smiling noncommittally.)

Despite the fact they had disgraced themselves, in terms of machismo, some of the women wanted pictures of the young men “for a calendar.”

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Himph! No one asked me if I’d pose for a calendar. And I tell you, I’ve taken on all four of those fellows and whupped them with one hand behind my back……twenty years ago.

As the evening came on I sat in the light of the campfire listening to the patter of the rain on the tarp overhead, and the deluge became a flood of memory. I listened to the murmurs of conversation, snatches of laughter, and strumming of a guitar and thought about what a fool I was thirty years ago, when I decided I had God’s plan for me all figured out. I was camping all alone in the New Mexico desert, and expected to be single all the days of my life.

In fact I managed to convince myself that being alone was likely for the best.  Spirituality is all about renouncing the things of the world, and it would be far easier to renounce everything if I didn’t have anything. Just as it is far easier to be a teetotaler if you have no booze, it would be easier to be celibate without a babe. My “bad karma” was actually “good karma”.

Not so fast. (Though it did happen with astonishing speed.) In fact, when I told a spiritual friend I had married a mother-of-three I didn’t try to explain it, beyond saying, “I don’t know what happened.” Karma is like that. Just when you think you have things figured out you learn you’re just a chip on a mighty river.

It is also a little amusing how “good karma” becomes “bad karma”. When my wife was clobbered by morning sickness and I had three kids to care for it occurred to me that “family values” might not be all that they were cut out to be. Not that I had any desire to camp alone again. But I understood the irony of the Springsteen “Hungry Heart” lyrics:

Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never went back,

There are times when leaving all worldly possessions has a definite appeal.  The Australian poet Francis Brabazon  describes a man who came to Meher Baba and offered to lay all his worldly possessions at his feet, namely, a wife and six kids.

However when Jesus said, “Leave all and follow me”, he didn’t mean just your “bad karma”. All means all. To be true follower you have to give up your “good karma”. Yikes. That is not so easy, when the kids who seemed like “bad karma” grow up and delight you by being “good karma” in a campfire’s wavering glow.

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It is no easy thing to truly give all to God. We are all addicts. But it helps when you reflect on how bankrupt you are without the gifts you have received from God. (I’m not sure where atheists think their talents and “luck” comes from.) It helps even more to believe God is love, and even “bad karma” holds compassion, though it may be a blessing very deeply disguised.

As a cancer survivor I know even accursed cancer can be a blessing, for it makes every day a treasure. One lives praying the doctor doesn’t deliver the bad news, “it’s back”. It is as if you are looking  around for the last time. Habits people have, which once annoyed you, become strangely endearing.

It is oddly ambiguous that, when we think we have control of our lives, we are full of complaining, but when we lose control we experience an overwhelming gratitude. Perhaps that explains (to some) why “leave all and follow me” is not really loss, but gain.

12 thoughts on “NOT LOCAL —Deluge Camping—

    • I actually agree. However I think that if we actually tented there would be some who wouldn’t attend, and, because the whole point of the exercise in pleasant madness is a sort of family bonding, I’ve made certain concessions for newborns and people over eighty. .

      If I had the time and money I’d hire a crew and set up comfortable tents and tarps in a more remote place, sort of like those rich dudes on Safari in Africa.

      When I was young all I needed was a pup tent, and could sleep on stone. Now my old bones don’t object to cushions. The one thing I object most to about RV’s is that you don’t hear the birds or breathe the fresh air.

      • For many years I lived in a travel trailer (sometimes had electricity, but no running water; heated with wood and coal) and when traveling I lived in my truck (I prefer that to a motel), or slept on the ground wherever I landed… friends said that I camped out at home, while normal people camped out away from home. 😀

        In my old age, tho, I live in a regular house like a normal person (got them fooled, I do), and yeah, on a winter morning the old bones appreciate natural gas, and cobwebs grow on the woodpile.

        But I eye that aspen grove in my back pasture, and while I’m clearing out deadwood, I think that it would make one heck of a nice campsite, with just the right mix of shelter and open air. (Except on summer evenings, when the twin-engine mosquitoes come out.)

  1. Yes, and here s another great beginning fir a fine chapter in the “The lost book of Caleb.” Got a nice ring to it. And it wouldn’t be an inappropriate title since a lot of your writings are lessons in all the right things about life. Cheers.

  2. When I was a young boy, I camped with the Boy Scouts on one trip when it deluged for days and nights on our leaky canvas tents. Never looked back, since then I have camped in all sorts of adverse conditions. You have to experience weather, not just watch it on your TV.

    Maybe that’s what those guys in the boat/sled are doing. Bonding.

  3. I like that line very much: “You have to experience weather, not just watch it on your TV.”

    My Dad had a superstition that if any adventure began with rain it was a “good sign.” Maybe it was merely because things could only improve, but it did tend to lessen our complaining.

    One Calvin and Hobbes cartoon I liked involves Calvin complaining the entire time, and then when his irked parents say they are heading home Calvin complains, “Already?”

    One thing I’ve seen very clearly at our Childcare is the best cure for ADD boys is not Ritalin, but pine trees.

    • ” the best cure for ADD boys is not Ritalin, but pine trees.”

      Geez yes, exactly. You might be interested in this:

      Click to access EJ985541.pdf

      The Decline of Play and the Rise of Psychopathology in Children and Adolescents — by Peter Gray
      Over the past half century, in the United States and other developed nations, children’s free play with other children has declined sharply. Over the same period, anxiety, depression, suicide, feelings of helplessness, and narcissism have increased sharply in children, adolescents, and young adults. This article documents these historical changes and contends that the decline in play has contributed to the rise in the psychopathology of young people.

      (This is one of the people Lenore Skenazy works with.)

      • Yes, I do like Lenore Skenazy’s “Free Range Kids” site. And Richard Louv wrote a good book called Last Child In The Woods about “Nature Deficit Disorder”, back in 2005. And places in Europe have been tuned in to the benefits of woods longer. But my wife and I were mostly thinking about what kids were missing, and didn’t know there was any literature on the subject.

        You’d be amazed at all the rules we had to find our way around. For example, any playground object more than 27 inches tall had to have a deep bed of wood-chips beneath it. Also farm animals were impossible due to good old healthy manure being deemed “fecal matter”. (There are actual papers suggesting it is bad if children are not exposed to germs, for if the immune system isn’t developed it attacks itself, increasing the likelihood of allergies and so on.) Fortunately there was a state worker who wasn’t a bureaucrat and who helped us, or we never would have started.

        A sterilized and bubble-wrapped childhood is not good, and at times seems a form of child-abuse. What really irks me are the people who say they are doing things “for the children” when what they mean is “job security” or “for the Teacher’s Union.”

    • That last line had me scratching my head. What do you do, use the pitch to stick them in place? Pine trees always was about the nastiest trees I can remember climbing because of the pitch oozing out them. Then again, the ad for Ewell Gibbons book always started with “Ever eat a Pine tree? Many parts are edible.” Do you feed them some of those edible parts? 😉

      • The Algonquin word “Adirondack” roughly translates as “bark eater”. Apparently the inner bark of white pine was a good late winter food if you ran out of corn and deer meat. There are reports of entire groves de-barked. It gets sappy before other trees in late winter sunshine, and peels easily off the harder wood beneath. Then it puffs up when you bake it. But they must have had some trick to get some of the sap out, because when I tried it I just couldn’t “acquire a taste” and think it might be impossible to “acquire a taste”. Cooks have their secrets, and pine-bark-flour must have involved tricks.

        The Finns used to gather evergreen bark and dry it “just in case”, and if they didn’t need it they’d feed to their livestock. They learned the hard way, as there was one famine in the Little Ice Age in Finland when a quarter of the population died.

        The only part we nibble is the very tips of the twigs, when they first start to elongate in the spring. Sweet and not overpoweringly sappy, but still sappy. You need to like the taste, and I always tell the kids that if they don’t like any wild food it is OK to just spit it out. (Some like that, because it isn’t allowed at home.)

        Pine groves have a sighing quality in the wind that cannot be described, and it seems to mellow kids out. I used to hunt the tallest white pines in the woods, ugly 200-year-old “wolf trees” that were never cut down for lumber because they were crooked and forked. It was always hard to find branches and start the climb, but once you got past the bottom they reached up above the surrounding forest, and gave you a great view of the lay of the land. Also birds never expected a human to be up there. Crows would be far more careless than usual, and then when they spotted you they’d do a double-take while flying and have complete conniptions. And yes, my hands did tend to get sappy. But it seemed worth it, and I recall rubbing my hands in dry dirt and wood ashes to get rid of the stickiness, if not the black stain.

        Hmm. Wonder if I’ve still got it in me to climb a pine?

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