A Memorable Camping Trip ...
The camping trips of my youth were but a distant memory when I decided I should head out for another sojourn in the woods. After a high-fibre breakfast that was now part of my daily routine, I leafed through my guidebook and found what sounded like a perfect destination. The fact that low cloud had settled over the mountains didn’t dampen my enthusiasm one bit, so I crammed the usual essentials into my bulging backpack and headed out.
By noon I was having what the guidebook referred to as a “memorable outing.” What had started out as a poor, struggling drizzle at the beginning of the day, had become a highly-successful downpour. As water trickled down my neck, I munched on a soggy sandwich, waterlogged raisins and peanuts, and mushy dried fruit. It always amazes me how much better food tastes outdoors than inside the confines of a house.
Once I reached my camping spot, I unpacked my mountain tent -- named because it was as heavy as a mountain. Part way through the process of driving in a tent peg with a large flat rock, I was overcome by an urge to dance. I leapt up, holding one hand in the other and began hopping about camp, yodeling a loud and boisterous tune. I must say it took me back to the joys of my younger days. How much more fun could a person possibly endure?
After supper, I crawled into my sleeping bag and wriggled around to sort the rocks under my sleeping mat according to size and shape. With a tree root nestled comfortably between my shoulder blades, I drifted off to sleep to the pleasant drumming of rain on the tent and soothing drip-drip-drip of water on my forehead.
The rain continued through the night, and by morning my wet feather-filled sleeping bag was beginning to smell like I was downwind from a chicken farm. I peeled the wet bag from my body, stirred around in the mud until I found my clothes, then prepared to hike back to the trailhead.
My waterlogged tent and sleeping bag had gained some weight through the night, and I hiked to the satisfying sounds of my vertebrae popping and cracking with each step. With the additional melodies of my squeaking knees, whistling breath, and groaning hips it was a truly musical experience. I sounded like a travelling one-man band.
My pack was so heavy that I seemed to be getting shorter with each hour, but perhaps that was just my imagination. To save wear and tear on my expensive waffle-stomper boots, I crawled the last kilometre on my hands and knees.
The great thing about camping trips is that the reminiscence of them lingers for weeks. It took that long to return to upright posture, for my skin to de-wrinkle, and for the aroma of wet chicken feathers to leave my body. The guidebook was right. It had indeed been a memorable outing.
back to top |
