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Camping served as the primary form of vacation during my formative years. Back then of course there were no modern facilities, i.e. campers, restrooms and showers. My father insisted on "rouging it". Our family of four would arrive at the campsite a couple of hours before sunset on a Friday evening and promptly tend to the first order of business; set-up of the tent. I'm not sure if "eight-man" referred to the number of people it would sleep or the number of men required for proper set up. If the latter was true that would explain the trouble we had. To this very day I've never heard my father curse, but the erection of said tent left him teetering on the brink. It never occurred to me that his fervent mumbling combined with the slamming of aluminum tent poles was anything other than standard procedure when it came to setting up a tent. "Roughing it" included the restroom facilities. I still recall the horror in my sister's eyes as my father explained that a dilapidated old outhouse would serve our 'needs'. As a young boy, there was little need for facilities; any old tree would do. The old outhouse and I had only one brief but memorable encounter. One morning just before sunrise nature came calling. I stumbled towards the leaning structure armed with a small flashlight. While unlatching the hook that secured the door my flashlight beam reached the back of the structure. From within the tiny structure came a disturbing noise, like nothing I had encountered in all of my ten years. In my altered, groggy state the only thing that is ingrained firmly in my mind is a menacing set of glowing eyes. Obviously I'd interrupted a raccoon and unfortunately, before he had time to finish his business. Perhaps I missed the occupied sign and should have knocked. Needless to say by the time I made it back to the tent in high-gear I had forgotten my business. My mother quickly reminded me as I hand-washed my soiled superman underwear and hung them on the clothesline to dry. For me that was the first and last trip to the outhouse, at least under the cover of darkness. Even as a young boy I felt the need to lay low, if for no other reason to lick my wounds and caress my bruised ego. Gathering my tackle box and fishing rod I set out down the dusty path hoping that the fishing gods would treat me with more respect than the masked bandit had. About every ten feet or so my head would whirl around quickly to inspect my back-trail, there was no doubt in my young mind that there were 'people' who would give anything to know the exact location of my 'honey hole'. Even at that tender young age, things that a forty-year old man still can't fully explain, stirred within me. There is a certain undeniable connection with nature that floods my soul when I find myself at a prized fishin' hole or in the woods hunting. My mind swirled as I took a seat on the
bare ground which overlooked the familiar drainage pipe. The
water hurriedly emptied into a serene pool. A shiny new hook
begged for fresh night-crawler and quickly I obliged, casting
my line out as far as I could reach. The swarming mosquitoes
buzzing around my head did little to deter me once I had my first
fish on the line. Only one event occurred during that camping trip that overshadowed my miserable failure of 'man-tests'. After lunch we all went to a small pond back in the woods, one that had been given birth to during the flooding of the river. It was very small, probably no more than thirty feet across and a thick green, smelly moss covered the first three or four feet of water all the way around the perimeter. As I recall, my mother looked forward to fishing with about as much enthusiasm as a root canal, but she had come along anyhow. She looked quite silly and I doubted she would catch anything employing her unusual technique. She cast her line out, apparently with no perquisites other than the bait lying somewhere near the water. The current book she held in her hand seemed to take priority. She would set the pole in a holder and hurry back to the saga. Her line had been out quite some time and she sat quietly in a lawn chair on the bank. My keen eye noticed the slight bounce in her rod tip. With an over-eager voice I alerted her to the fact she had a fish nibbling on her bait. To this day I'm not sure if my yelling startled her, but she tossed the book aside and immediately reached for the pole. The bank was fairly steep and as she shifted her weight forward to reach the pole the lawn-chair developed a mind of its own and began sliding towards that awful, green moss. Before she could regain control of the chair she found herself waist deep in the muck with the chair folded up on her behind making it difficult to climb ashore. My father, sister, and I couldn't help but laugh and it was several moments before we regained our composure enough to hoist her from the murky water. Some thirty years later my mother still frowns when that story is told. Looking back makes me wonder how much that old Sears-Roebuck tent cost. In my mind it surely was worth every penny. Although the green and yellow canvas faded over the years it provided shelter for our family, keeping the swarms of mosquitoes at bay and the wildlife in check. Many memories were formed during those camping trips, but I feel the most important aspect that remains with me today is the sense of family. Those long weekends were merely a snapshot in time, but this particular trip and many others helped to shape and mold me into the person I am today. Money was hard to come by back then and
while many of my classmates looked forward to their yearly Florida
summer vacations, never did I feel slighted. There would always
be a cleared spot near the water for that worn and cantankerous
Coleman tent, and if the fishing gods held up their end of the
deal, no one will have discovered my secret fishin' hole. You can read more of Dan's poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/ Send Dan a message either directly or using the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Dan visit the Word Catalyst archives or his online home. |
Cheshire Cat
Songs of
Warming breezes remind me it's time to replace
the old rotten line on my favorite fishing reel and knock the
dust off the pop-up camper. My memories of childhood camping
trips are as plentiful as the handfuls of permanently-kinked
line I strip from the reel.
