Last night by dad and I decided to go on a somewhat on-the-fly father-son camping trip. During the many quality breaks in sleeping time I was graced with during the night, I did some deep thinking on the nature of my enjoyment of camping. Continuing with the explanatory pattern of these blog-posts, I will explain (or attempt to explain) my passion for (read: "obsession with") camping. This will be done in bite-sized talking points that relate to our experience last night:
1. Escape. At four o'clock on the last Saturday of 2012, the cold night of winter was rapidly approaching and my dad, my dog Nikki, and I cruised up the dirt road near the Pisgah Forest riding stables. As we rounded a the familiar bend we discovered that our intended camping spot was taken, as well as its backup, presumably by the same group. With a rush of anguish we ventured forth into unknown territory, hoping another camping spot would present itself. As chance would have it, we discovered a spot with no "No Camping" or "Camp Not Here" signs. Upon inspection, it became apparent that we would be its first visitors since at least when the last round of leaves dumped down from the trees and onto the fire pit. In a sense, we were blazing new ground, forced into action by the change of plan and increasing Buckwheat Knob's car camping capacity by 50%. Still, we were well out of ear or even whistle shot of the other group, and no other reasonable campsites existed on the remaining stretch of road to highway 276. We had left the concerns of civilization behind us and the mountain would be just ours. This would be my home for 1/7300 of my young life.
2. Sense of adventure. After establishing camp, we took a quick hike up the Club Gap trail, ducking some power pylons and skirting an area where somebody had apparently gone chainsaw happy on some trees. After less than 20 minutes of hiking we discovered a cave, wet with a stream pouring over it's opening and legitimately the largest I'd ever seen in Pisgah. We discussed panning for gold and the difficulty of creating the logging roads that crisscrossed the mountains around us. After a two mile round trip hike, we arrived back at the campsite in the dark of night and painstakingly built the fire in the biting cold. It really made me appreciate that fact we had a combustion engine attached to a four wheel drive vehicle that could make it back to our warm home in about 40 minutes.
"Imagine being a pioneer, having to do this day in and day out," I asked rhetorically.
3. Food. With the fire's crucial warmth we were able to prepare a dinner in relative comfort. Luckily, the good folks at Bi-Lo had done most of the work for us- two sets of "gourmet" beef patties of bacon "chedda" and "blue and black" (blue cheese and ground pepper). We did hammer out some home-grown sweet potatoes by wrapping them in tinfoil and roasting them in the coals. Despite a melted spatula and a rather crispy exterior on the taters, it was a great meal. The human body's increased demand for heat-giving calories in the chilly outdoors combined with the constant activities of the camp really does lead to a deeper appreciation for life's most basic of needs. Plus, you can't ever go wrong with a dozen soft frosted, post-Christmas clearance cookies.
4. Camaraderie. Or maybe Fellowship. The former sounds distinctly Soviet but I believe it to be the most accurate word to describe the feeling of togetherness folks get while roughing it. The latter is suitable as well, and brings to mind a sort of spiritual vibe that can certainly be felt when the right group of individuals converges on a campfire. My dad and I certainly felt both last night, especially once the night's tasks had been completed and all there was left to do was talk around the campfire. Sometimes, when there is not a forty mph wind blowing through camp that forces you to utilize all four sleeping bags you brought with you, the conversation will extend well into the night even after everyone has retreated to their tents. That is the mark of an extra successful night of fellowship.
5. Dreams. When temperatures are so low that your dog squeezes into the crevice between sleeping areas to stay warm, it becomes difficult to sleep for an extended, or even reasonable, uninterrupted amount of time. For some reason, at least for me, this leads to even more unusual dreams than usual. For example, on this particular night, I dreamed that I had returned to my former middle school to stand in the cafeteria line. However upon arrival at the cash register, instead of numerals on the keypad we used to enter our account numbers, there were pictures of condiments. As in mustard, ketchup, pickles, and even olives, the one food I will not eat. Frantically, I scrambled to translate numerals corresponding to the account number I hadn't thought about in over six years into the language of food pictographs. When I expectedly failed at this, I was graciously given the meal for free. Then my tray disappeared. I don't know what it means.
6. Contrast. The occasional misery and all-around uncomfortableness of camping more than makes up itself in the increased appreciation for the comforts of home. Just like how someone growing up poor finds themselves better with money later in life compared to somebody who has always lived in affluence, the camper knows how easily we have it at home. Don't get me wrong, the experienced camper will eventually acclimate to any discomfort, and at the same time learn how to come prepared for anything. When we woke at 8:30 the next morning from our restless slumber, it was windier than ever and our fire had been blown completely out. We decided to bail without cooking breakfast.
"I wouldn't want to be a pioneer," my dad said as we drove off.
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