Spring is here, despite the random sleet and hail. They took back that borrowed hour and it's all going to get better from here on in. Especially if I could photosynthesize food, and live outside.
My wife introduced me to the Camping Phenomenon shortly after we met, in the late '80's.
However, I grew up going to summer camp on a large island mostly devoted to that; young hippies looked after us when they weren't tanning or painting peace signs or boinking furiously as soon we had taken the drugged hot chocolate every night. Seriously. The church that paid the tab had no idea what was going on, nor what was to come. That's another post. Nevertheless, many good times, and a few really decent people made it worthwhile.
Later there were some crazy long hikes and a lot of sleeping out with just our pack of supplies. We got lost a couple of times, and hiked through the rough for 14 hours once. But it was all amazing.
Campfire cooking, ghost stories, dead silent evenings and more stars than I have ever seen since. Meteor showers and once, even auroras to watch. Waking up with cold dew on my face, having to pee so badly and hopping as quickly out into the bush as possible. Realizing right after how very cold the morning was. Aching all over from the day before, scratched legs, dirt ground into my wrists and the tight feeling of my sunburned ears. Salal everywhere under pines and peeling arbutus trees.
Camping. I was so glad to learn that my wife was a camper, too. Her family camped every year together. She and I would surely hang out together, really get out there, hiking to slightly remote places to bundle up together and live like there was no more world for a week at a time. I would learn to fish. I was suddenly very nostalgic to get away completely. Eager.
I used to be eager a lot.
Camping with my in-laws actually meant driving to a slightly remote town and parking on a privately-owned slab of asphalt surrounded by not enough trees to screen four other lots within spitting distance. RVs and camper-vans were typical. Campfires were restricted to a half an oil drum on each lot, and firewood had to be bought, and then dried. Then doused in oil.
There was a lot of noise. A lot of drinking. This was the little town of Hope, where First Blood was filmed. It hadn't changed much in those 10 years.
My brothers-in-law could, and still can, put away a 24 each and every night. At the time they were about 30. Typically they would spend the night streaking down public roads, then returning to argue and fall against our tent before one (let's call him Chuck), would return to his own tent and his wife, and the other (Dick) would stick his head in a beer-box and wrap himself in a shower curtain and pass out on the gravel between the lots.
Their arguments were epic:
Somehow they never ended up hitting each other, although they did frequently injure themselves while waving their arms over their heads and tripping over nothing. In the morning Chuck would have ended up in the river, where the shallows ran around a gravel bar, sitting on a lawn chair, refusing to speak to anyone.
All the children would begin their day by poking Dick's carcass with sticks, then they'd steal his beer-box to play with.
One evening the kids came running into camp shouting that Princess Di was dead. Their parents had no interest in such lies, and they were ordered to go to bed early. The children missed seeing Uncle Dick streak across the freeway bridge that night, and have never gotten over it, although they've stopped blaming the monarchy.
The campground was badly maintained. The washrooms were revolting, and the "heated showers" were ankle-deep with soil. The management was obnoxious and unhelpful. The other guests were loud and rude, but couldn't hold a candle to my in-laws.
They and their friends numbered about thirty people in all. They would gather and take over one edge of the campground entirely, a single row of sites which was bounded by a raised road on one side and river on the other. There were still noise complaints, and the manager hated them like high school.
They had to change names every time they reserved the lots, and finally things came to a head one evening when Dick waved his finger in the manager's face and dared him to oust them all for "noise", threatening to kick the man's ass if he ever bothered them again.
What happened an hour later was ...
We had no idea that a town of 3000 even had a riot squad. But there they were, not too busy to assemble and come to camp. They did impress the tourists; the whole place went silent.
They advanced up the road slowly, in perfect unison, batons in hand, followed by two cruisers full of backup. My brothers-in-law were stupefied. The procession met them just on the slope above the campsites on either side.
Reactions were mixed:
My bros-in-law offered the police beer. The squad declined. The manager ran up and made his case, then the bros made theirs. The guy was was upset. It went a lot like this:
Entirely on the judgment of who among them was most irritating, Chuck & Dick avoided a mass beat-down. They were banned from ever coming back to that campground, and had to find somewhere else to descend.
But they left their mark, like salting the soil. One of my supervisors at The Warehouse Store was a large, belligerent alcohol and prescription drug addict with a following among the most aggressive men and women there.
Turns out that group book those very same sites in that campground every year now and act exactly the same way, with the addition of one woman who started biting people and disappeared into the woods for the week. The cops don't come any more, and that manager has moved on.
Let's call it a tie.
Soon: Our camping.
My wife introduced me to the Camping Phenomenon shortly after we met, in the late '80's.
However, I grew up going to summer camp on a large island mostly devoted to that; young hippies looked after us when they weren't tanning or painting peace signs or boinking furiously as soon we had taken the drugged hot chocolate every night. Seriously. The church that paid the tab had no idea what was going on, nor what was to come. That's another post. Nevertheless, many good times, and a few really decent people made it worthwhile.
Later there were some crazy long hikes and a lot of sleeping out with just our pack of supplies. We got lost a couple of times, and hiked through the rough for 14 hours once. But it was all amazing.
Campfire cooking, ghost stories, dead silent evenings and more stars than I have ever seen since. Meteor showers and once, even auroras to watch. Waking up with cold dew on my face, having to pee so badly and hopping as quickly out into the bush as possible. Realizing right after how very cold the morning was. Aching all over from the day before, scratched legs, dirt ground into my wrists and the tight feeling of my sunburned ears. Salal everywhere under pines and peeling arbutus trees.
Camping. I was so glad to learn that my wife was a camper, too. Her family camped every year together. She and I would surely hang out together, really get out there, hiking to slightly remote places to bundle up together and live like there was no more world for a week at a time. I would learn to fish. I was suddenly very nostalgic to get away completely. Eager.
I used to be eager a lot.
Camping with my in-laws actually meant driving to a slightly remote town and parking on a privately-owned slab of asphalt surrounded by not enough trees to screen four other lots within spitting distance. RVs and camper-vans were typical. Campfires were restricted to a half an oil drum on each lot, and firewood had to be bought, and then dried. Then doused in oil.
There was a lot of noise. A lot of drinking. This was the little town of Hope, where First Blood was filmed. It hadn't changed much in those 10 years.
My brothers-in-law could, and still can, put away a 24 each and every night. At the time they were about 30. Typically they would spend the night streaking down public roads, then returning to argue and fall against our tent before one (let's call him Chuck), would return to his own tent and his wife, and the other (Dick) would stick his head in a beer-box and wrap himself in a shower curtain and pass out on the gravel between the lots.
 |
| Home safe. Whew! |
Their arguments were epic:
"What--I'm just trying to say--"(Repeat, louder and more urgently for two hours.)
"No, YOU listen! You need to hear stuff for once!"
"But I'm trying to say something here!"
"Listen UP! I'm TALKING!"
Somehow they never ended up hitting each other, although they did frequently injure themselves while waving their arms over their heads and tripping over nothing. In the morning Chuck would have ended up in the river, where the shallows ran around a gravel bar, sitting on a lawn chair, refusing to speak to anyone.
All the children would begin their day by poking Dick's carcass with sticks, then they'd steal his beer-box to play with.
One evening the kids came running into camp shouting that Princess Di was dead. Their parents had no interest in such lies, and they were ordered to go to bed early. The children missed seeing Uncle Dick streak across the freeway bridge that night, and have never gotten over it, although they've stopped blaming the monarchy.
The campground was badly maintained. The washrooms were revolting, and the "heated showers" were ankle-deep with soil. The management was obnoxious and unhelpful. The other guests were loud and rude, but couldn't hold a candle to my in-laws.
They and their friends numbered about thirty people in all. They would gather and take over one edge of the campground entirely, a single row of sites which was bounded by a raised road on one side and river on the other. There were still noise complaints, and the manager hated them like high school.
They had to change names every time they reserved the lots, and finally things came to a head one evening when Dick waved his finger in the manager's face and dared him to oust them all for "noise", threatening to kick the man's ass if he ever bothered them again.
What happened an hour later was ...
 |
| Overkill. |
We had no idea that a town of 3000 even had a riot squad. But there they were, not too busy to assemble and come to camp. They did impress the tourists; the whole place went silent.
They advanced up the road slowly, in perfect unison, batons in hand, followed by two cruisers full of backup. My brothers-in-law were stupefied. The procession met them just on the slope above the campsites on either side.
Reactions were mixed:
 |
| WHAT the?! |
My bros-in-law offered the police beer. The squad declined. The manager ran up and made his case, then the bros made theirs. The guy was was upset. It went a lot like this:
Guess who the manager played?
Entirely on the judgment of who among them was most irritating, Chuck & Dick avoided a mass beat-down. They were banned from ever coming back to that campground, and had to find somewhere else to descend.
But they left their mark, like salting the soil. One of my supervisors at The Warehouse Store was a large, belligerent alcohol and prescription drug addict with a following among the most aggressive men and women there.
Turns out that group book those very same sites in that campground every year now and act exactly the same way, with the addition of one woman who started biting people and disappeared into the woods for the week. The cops don't come any more, and that manager has moved on.
Let's call it a tie.
Soon: Our camping.
