Historical June 1989 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
“Why do otherwise intelligent and reasonable people choose to do something stupid like going camping?” That’s the question of the day. I can understand why otherwise intelligent and reasonable people choose to defile their bodies with liquor and tobacco; I can understand why otherwise intelligent and reasonable people choose to drive too fast and not wear seatbelts; I can understand why otherwise intelligent and reasonable people choose to buy lottery tickets, watch Geraldo, and admire the Serra Sculpture; but choosing to go camping?
No way, Jose!
My first camping experiences were with the Cub Scouts.
For two long weeks the four of us—all fifth graders—shared a tent at night.
During the day we were yelled at as we tried to learn how to swim.
We were berated as we got lost on an orienteering course.
We ate tepid food that was supposed to be hot and cold food that was supposed to be warm.
At night we tried to sleep among mosquitoes big enough to wear saddles and crickets who, even then, chirped in Dolby stereo: I can remember writing a “miss you” postcard to the window air-conditioner in my bedroom at home. I came home sunburned, tired, and bitten by ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, and some unnamed rodent with a severe overbite. Worst of all, the four of us—Gordon, Michael, Marshall and myself—had been picked on by the big eighth graders who were also at camp.
They took our towels when we were in the shower, and made us go to bed while they stayed up and played cards.
And the latrines!
The latrines were so disgusting, we cut down on our eating so that we could be there less often.
On top of everything else, then, we were always hungry. I vowed never to camp again. Why intentionally subject myself to heat, humidity, bugs, dirt, outhouses, sleeping on the ground, and trying to eat from a can that had been heated over the fire? Why on earth, I asked myself, would any reasonable and prudent person subject himself to such primitive conditions?
My goal was to get an education which would allow me to have a job which would enable me to stay in an air-conditioned environment, sleep on a soft mattress, and order fine food from Domino’s.
No way, I vowed, would I ever camp again.
The U.S. Army didn’t pay much attention to my vow.
There I was, just six weeks into basic training, walking across some field in Fort Ord, California.
I was carrying all of my field gear, my M-1 rifle (fully loaded with the best blanks in town), and my camping equipment.
To top off all of this, I was wearing genuine U.S. Army fatigues, and I simply don’t look good in green.
The military, in its infinite wisdom, takes the opposite tact of any reasonable person.
My assumption is that if it feels bad, don’t do it.
The military says that if it feels bad, do it.
As if pure camping isn’t bad enough, the military decided to make it even better, i.e. worse, by adding the element of tear gas to our festivities. That’s right, we didn’t just “camp”, no, we “enacted!’ Yep, “enacted” is military jargon for “camping while under fire!’ Since they didn’t want to shoot live ammunition at us (someone might have been hit and that would have caused a great deal of paperwork), they decided to simply “gas” us as we hiked and camped.
Our unit’s cooks even traded our desserts to some other unit so that we’d have more tear gas for fun and games.
The cookies always were great fun.
If you’ve never retched while wearing a gas mask, you don’t really know what camping is.
There I was, around midnight, lying in a ditch at the side of the road, trying to throw up while wearing my gas mask.
It wasn’t a pretty sight, but, as I said, I don’t look good in green.
We camped for three nights, but it seemed like three eternities.
On the second night they even awakened us at 2:00 a.m. so we could pack, hike, and unpack in the darkness.
One thing about the military, it sure makes you appreciate home, even if home’s not too hot. Perhaps my favorite memory of camping in California is not taking a shower or a bath for three days.
Not three days of sitting and reading and reflecting, but three days of marching, packing, being gassed, unpacking, and more marching.
We all smelled so bad that I bet the latrines didn’t even want to be downwind from us.
After returning from my mini-active duty, I served, more or less, in the Army Reserves for six very long years. I protected the area of south Kingshighway from foreign invasion. (Was I successful? Have we been invaded?) Each year the reserves had an annual overnight at Ft. Leonard Wood.
Most years I managed to use the law firm of Hook & Crook to escape the torture, but one year lady luck grabbed me by my poncho and I was caught.
A Trailways bus dumped us in the middle of nowhere and we were told to pitch our tents.
This was the reserves, remember, so cards, portable radios, chess games, and frisbees emerged from the duffle bags. Late at night we heard a clanging and saw a Mr. Snackee ice cream truck pushing through the wilderness to find our campsight.
There we were, green fatigues and all, waiting to get a double scoop with a sugar cone.
Even ice cream has its limits, however, and the night was chilly, the ground hard, and the sleep rare. I vowed never, ever to camp again. Then I married my first wife, an ex-Girl Scout Counselor. “What:’ she screamed, “you don’t camp? Are you a communist?” And this was on our first date. I convinced her that no, I wasn’t a commie pinko (after all, I loved apple pie and owned a Chevrolet). “Well then:’ she said, “if you love me, you’ll go camping with me:’ Even then she had a way with words.
There we were, pitching a tent on the Meramec river. Just the three of us.
My first wife, me, and the armada of mosquitoes.
We finally fell off to sleep (the wife, and I anyway, I’m not sure about the mosquitoes) when I was awakened by something wet and cold on my feet.
It seems that the tricky ol’ Meramec had done it again.
We were lying in a flood plain about to be covered with water.
My Girl Scout wife had forgotten to consider that all the rain might wind up in the river. Heck, at this rate, WE might wind up in the river!
She cried and I packed the car.
She cried louder and I packed faster.
We were a great team.
The ride home was a long and wet one. I swore upon all that is holy—The Rolling Stones, Ted Drewes, and Macanudos—to never camp again.
The first wife swore upon all that is holy—shoes, antique jewelry, and shoes—to never ask me to go camping again. We’ve existed with this truce from many years now: I don’t camp and she buys shoes. Hey, it works for us, so who’s to complain?
After all, it could be worse.
At least she doesn’t take my towel while I’m in the shower and she only attacks me with tear gas on my birthday.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, June 1989.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1989_06.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
