The Great Outdoors

The Cub Scout Overnight is this Saturday. Once the Halloween parties were over (yes, plural - the PTA's "Halloween Howl" was Friday night [and Mrs. G. is the secretary of the PTA] and the Cub Scout Halloween party was Saturday night), I turned my attention to gathering the last of the gear The Boy and I would need for our night in the wilderness. In November. In New Hampshire.

I've always loved camping. Now, I've only done "car camping", which means that all my gear is brought from the car to the campsite for set-up. I haven't backpacked in, or mountain-biked in, or even carried my gear in on the Harley. My gear is decidedly old-school, with a Coleman stove and lantern that formerly belonged to my parents - from before I was born. I've added a propane lantern to the mix, as it's much easier to use then the liquid lantern (especially around the Scouts), but I prefer the old stove and lantern whenever possible.

I did a lot of camping as a graduate student; there's something about the low cost of camping out (free, if you know where to look; otherwise darn close to free in a pinch) that appeals to someone making less than minimum wage. While the pay wasn't great, my advisor insisted on us taking at least two weeks off over the summer, which meant grabbing the tent, the rest of the gear, and heading north, south, or west to find a new location to explore.

We gravitated mostly north, to the White Mountains region of NH. Wide open spaces, plenty of hiking, fishing, climbing, etc. - this was even back when you could see the Old Man in the Mountain. We climbing Mount Washington; traveled the Kancamagus Highway; played poker under a blue tarp in the pouring rain somewhere south of North Conway. Vacations were a lot simpler then; a borrowed tent, an old sleeping bag, and a folding chair that doubled as a bed meant a week's worth of sleeping late, drinking beer all day long, and worrying only about remembering to get ice and more beer.

Somewhere along the way, though, it became more than just drinking beer in the woods. It became exploration, the quest for the perfect location. It became a night spent in absolute quiet somewhere along Tripoli road, a desolate access road to a ski resort, utterly useless in July except for cheap camping ($20 per carload per week). No showers, no bathrooms (dig a latrine!), just a giant fire pit six feet across with a rock the size of a Volkswagen at the back. One year we made at least a half-cord of wood disappear in that fire pit over the course of a week.

I have no sense of smell. I can't reminisce about the smells of the campsite, the bacon grilling in a cast-iron frypan or coffee percolating over smouldering hot embers of the previous night's bonfire. What I do have, commented on by many friends, is an acute ear - my lack of smell has apparently resulted in my hearing being significantly amplified as a method of compensation. While I may not smell the bacon, I hear it sizzle. While the coffee's aroma may escape me, the sound of the coffee percolating in the tin coffee pot alerts me to impending caffeination.

I think it's a pretty fair trade.


I might miss the smell of fresh flowers along a trail, but I hear each cricket's unique chirp. I can echolocate a bullfrog within 5 feet of his actual position. The flutter of a bat's wings in twilight lets me know that the mosquito population is about to dwindle. The light snap of a twig indicates a skunk may be penetrating our perimeter (time to "mark" the boundaries of the campsite again!). There's an absolutely amazing world out there in the woods; life bursts from every fallen tree, murky swamp, and forest floor. Footfalls on a carpet of pine needles make a sound one never hears in the city; the rustle of a wild animal in the tall grass just beyond the treeline gives an adrenaline rush unlike any other.

And Saturday night I get to share this with The Boy. Now, we'll be in a camp full of Cub Scouts. Most likely there will be too much noise to fully embrace the outdoors; the season is too far along for all of nature's creatures to be present; we're not bringing any beer, wine, or other spirits to "enhance" the experience. But I'll have my son with me. And I'll get to add a whole new world of sounds to my repetoire.

I can't wait.

That is all.