D  e  s  e  r  t   E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e        January 2008

Back to the Roots

Winter camping, a recipe for rejuvenation.

My pickup was loaded to the gills, so to speak. I mean, there wasn't room for the kitchen sink — come to think of it, the kitchen sink was already in there!

In the last issue of this fair rag I related to you my adventure with the bees, but that adventure was a passing thought compared to the whole package of camping itself.

I am pretty spoiled when it comes to the conveniences of life, where at my beck and call I have hot running water, a remote to tune into my every whim, a flush toilet, a thermostat to keep me comfortably at 75 degrees both summer and winter, a light switch in every room, a microwave to give me instant gratification, and on and on and on.

Because of all of this, I regularly need to bring myself back to the roots of existence that keep me grounded and appreciative of all of those blessings that the Lord had bestowed upon me. Camping does just that!

In years past I've told you about going to "Sanctuary," a place apart and alone where I could plug in and rejuvenate and recharge. This year, though, I took a good buddy along; sometimes bonding is better than Sanctuary.

Larry Anderson, manager of the Grant County Airport, came with me as my camp pard. Somehow a campfire just doesn't mean the same unless you've got a kindred spirit to "emote" with. The two of you can share experiences like kicking hot coals with leather-shod boots as you stare into the glowing embers, or poking said fire with long, green sticks to make sparks float skyward, mesmerizing you both with their antics.

And, of course, as you sit by the fire the two of you sip "cowboy coffee" from a hot, metal cup (hopefully blue-enamel-covered with white speckles). Yeah, having a camp pard is good stuff!

In times like this, politeness, manners and shyness are left at home, and in their place reside the rudiments of the male world, like open honesty, sometimes without tact, or laughing raucously at an oft-time stupid remark that your spouse would surely not understand. Or one or the both of you scooch your butt around in the lawn chair that you occupy, after you both have downed a dinner of way too many baked beans and steak, and the resultant, uncouth noise doesn't have to be apologized for — no matter how offensive the odor is — and you ain't embarrassed in the least!

Camping is a time for sitting around all day long and having straightforward, unpretentious conversations, frequently interrupted by side trips to the "woods" with shovel and paper (no toilet tissue out here!) in hand.

At night the star-filled sky becomes our TV, and the main attractions are the vast Milky Way and the Big Dipper, along with a myriad cast of others just as spectacular. Funny, but I don't get tired of seeing the same show over and over each night; in this case, reruns are good therapy.

Larry cut four, long, green sticks from some juniper trees so that we could impale real beef hotdogs on their ends, and roast the weiners over the open flame — an act Larry admitted he hadn't done in nearly 50 years (he's an old geezer like me). In fact, he enjoyed this culinary treat so much, he scarfed down five!

On other evenings we roasted fresh-killed squirrel and cottontail bunny, impaled lengthwise on forked green sticks and slowly turned above the hot coals for an hour or more. I've eaten bunnies in this way from coast to coast, and believe me, New Mexico bunnies are by far the tastiest, with their feathery white meat.

Bedtime in camp is a treat for me, too; in fact, it's one of my favorite times! After that first night, I found myself eagerly looking forward to bedtime, and Larry wound up sitting alone in front of a roaring fire as I excused myself to go to bed.

My bed was substantial: Under the tent floor itself was laid a nylon tarp, and on top of the floor lay a thick, wool blanket. The 40-year-old cotton-duck, Coleman double bag lay over the blanket, and on top of the bag were two old comforters, long discarded from our house by my wife. These comforters were secured to the bag by six heavy brass safety pins so that when I rolled over, the covers wouldn't slip off.

So I was quite comfy in my tent-bed. Poor Larry A., on the other hand, lay on the other side of the tent, and he had but one scant fall bag that was way too short, and an equally skimpy blanket on top, which slipped off every time he turned over.

Now let me say here that camping is a time of sharing, but in the case of beds, ol' Larry A. had to go it alone. I draw the line when it comes to sleeping arrangements!

Even with all of that bedding, I still wore a pair of sweats and socks!

At first, it was hard to turn over beneath all that weight, but I adapted and slept like a baby. It was strange in that I have chronic back problems and at home I awaken with stiffness and pain, but in camp, I arose every day feeling like a spring chicken.

I'll let you in on another secret: There were times when we both slept for 12 hours, and the rest of the nights was no less than nine! Try that at home. I didn't even need an afternoon nap!

Pard was usually the first to the kitchen and the chore of making coffee fell to him; it was sorta "cowboy coffee." True cowboy coffee, I'm told, was made by taking a cowpoke's sock and filling it with fresh grounds and boiling the mess in water in a metal pot over open flames. I wasn't about to submit to Larry A. using his sock to make coffee (my sock, maybe), so he compromised by taking a fistful of grounds and dumping them into the cold water, then bringing it to a hearty boil. He was supposed to then pour some cold water into it to settle the grounds, but he "forgot" to do that on several occasions, and we ended up sifting grounds through our teeth! Ugh! Mostly it was good brew, though.

Space doesn't permit me to relate all of the tales that went on in that happy respite from modernism, but by now you get the idea — it was a grand adventure! By the end of those seven, semi-primitive days, we were restored and revitalized, although regretful that we had to once again join the "world."

Has life become mundane and stale for you? Maybe it's time to stop and get away and go to winter camp. And no, I don't mean in a motorized home or fifth wheel or anything with wheels. Go camping with a tent!

And if going to Sanctuary isn't your bag, then take along a pard or two and share the fun. Someday when you too are old geezers, all you will have is these kind of memories, because your body can't do the real thing anymore, and you'll need memory fuel to keep you going. After all, without memories, what will you have?

As always keep the sun forever at your back, the wind forever in your face, and may the Forever God bless you too!