Charles Dickens penned the perfect description: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” He was talking about the tumultuous years of the French Revolution. I am talking about camping.
Some of my friends joke that they “camp” at the Holiday Inn. Pshaw. That’s another humdrum hotel stay. Pack more gear for a weekend than a family of twelve stuffed in their covered wagon to travel the Oregon Trail- and head out. There will be a story to tell when everybody gets home.
The first time I went camping was a family trip to Vogel State Park in 1967. I don’t remember why my parents chose to spend our vacation in the mountains instead of at the beach- (unless my dad got to pick that year)- but I do remember the trip. We had a big blue tent that had a lot of poles and stakes- and was hard to set up. Luckily, I had only to steer clear during the process and remember not to touch the sides if it rained. I refused to get out of the lake until I turned blue. There was a tall, rickety metal slide in the water that insurance companies and lawyers have since removed, but I went down it a thousand times before they got to it. It was fun. I had the best of times– and learned to swim. Mother said she had never worked so hard in her life.
The Girl Scouts of Troop 1210 were not only cheerful, thrifty, and clean in thought, word, and deed- but were badge-worthy campers. I remember riding to camp-outs in a caravan of station wagons, with flashlights, sit-upons, sleeping bags, dunking bags, ponchos, mess kits, and hobo suppers- and everybody looking forward to banana boats around the campfire. We could always count on s’mores, playing “sardines,” and terrifying tales of “the chicken lady”- “Step… drag. Step… drag.” Nobody wanted to sleep next to the tent canvas where the chicken lady might rip through with her chicken-foot and…get you! Once our troop camped in platform tents in slumber party sleeping bags when the temperature unexpectedly dropped below minus fifty, with a stiff north wind. That miserable experience happened at Camp Maynard.
Camp Maynard- more than one miserable experience happened there- but we had a lot of fun, too. A steep bank fell into the creek and everybody liked to scramble up and slide down- so the seat of almost every camper’s shorts stayed dirty and our Keds were always wet. Inside the lodge, big glass jars filled with snakes suspended in formaldehyde lined a shelf. (Memorable, but why)? Summers, we went to day camp at Camp Maynard. We rode a bus, belting out either “Found a Peanut” or “I’m Leaving on the Midnight Train, La-ti-da, Uh-huh, Oh Boy.” We went on bird walks around the lake with Mrs. R.E. Hamilton (a remarkable denizen of another time). We painted sticks and clacked them together in a Hawaiian song I am still able to sing, and we played in the creek. I liked day camp- but the summer after sixth grade, we were old enough to stay overnight- all week.
We set up floorless pup tents on a hillside beneath tall loblolly pines, under the direction of our leaders, hard-nosed sisters who had recently been kicked out of the Marines for being too tough. We had come to earn the Campcraft badge, and earn it we would. We hiked with packs and compasses. We tied knots and lashed sticks together. We identified flora, fauna, and insects. We individually built a regular fire in three minutes with two matches, and together we built a ceremonial fire. We cooked inedible food using various methods. We safely used pocket knives. We lay on the ground at night, hoping all the snakes had made it into the jars of formaldehyde. All this was nothing.
One hot, muggy night, we huddled in our pup tents- filthy, sunburned, chigger-riddled, and hungry. Thunder rumbled. While our leaders were absent, gone to shower in the lodge, a terrific thunderstorm exploded around us. Heavy winds whipped up the ceremonial fire, spreading it to pine straw between the tents. Tall pines above us bent and tossed. Lightning flashed and cracked- and thunder boomed. Girls were screaming and crying- one fainted- (we got to practice our first aid skills), and torrents of rain rushed down the hillside- through our tents. We fled toward the lodge. Our leaders met us along the way. “Good Scouts are not afraid of a storm!” they shouted, herding us back to the campsite, where we spent the night- filthy, sunburned, chigger-riddled, hungry, and drenched. It was the worst of times- almost. Our method of cooking breakfast the next morning was to wrap a canned biscuit around a stick and toast it over the fire- except there was no fire- only smoke from thoroughly soaked wood.
Incredibly, I kept on camping.
Tent technology improved and it became possible to set up a tent in a few minutes without instruction booklets, awkward pole configurations, and frustrated outbursts. In our young couple days, we often met friends near the Nantahala River, set up our nifty domed tents, built a fire, roasted hot dogs, pulled out the guitar and sang Country Road, Take Me Home, rehashed our river adventures, solved the problems of the world, and made s’mores. For ten years, it was the best of times.
Then there came a night beside the Toccoa River when I was done with tent camping- and perilously close to being done with all camping. Enough rain fell that night to float the ark and overflow the nearby “comfort station.” An angry, pregnant woman who cannot abide unpleasant odors, two small children, and all the family’s wet camping gear is a tight squeeze in the back of a Datsun pickup with a camper top.
Our next trip was in a brand-new pop-up camper.
The best of times returned. We camped frequently- in a mob of friends where children outnumbered adults- and we collected stories: of bikes and bears, hikes where we lost a kid or two (we got them back), tubing (some had better tubing stories than others), rafting (mostly right-side-up), skits and games and hickory nuts falling so hard and fast everyone wore bike helmets in the campsite. We laughed, sang, made s’mores, and dropped buzz bombs into a roaring fire.
During those years I loaded a new generation of courteous, loyal Girl Scouts, with their flashlights, sleeping bags, sit-upons, dunking bags, ponchos, mess kits, and hobo suppers- into a caravan of minivans, and took them camping. (Happily, they didn’t know about the chicken lady- and I didn’t tell them).
Sure, there have been a few mishaps- But a good Scout isn’t afraid of bats in the camper, yellow jackets in the t-shirt, tornado warnings, or sharing the shower with flying woodland insects the size of small dogs. Some of our favorite “sayings” come from camp-outs: our friend Chuck, whose words are few, speaking up while eating his dinner beside a sputtering fire in driving rain on a trip he advised against: “This was a bad idea,”… Little Kristen, who had never heard a bullfrog, calling out in the dark: “Mrs. Debbie…Is that a bear?” And the ranger, dramatically pronouncing sentence on a rabid skunk: “You know what this means, girls, I’m gonna have to eliminate him.”
The pop-up is no longer new, and we need a fresh log book- but we’re still good to go. Pack your flashlight, sleeping bag, sit-upon, mess kit, dunking bag, and poncho, and let’s go. You may never work so hard in your life- but you’ll come home with a story. It will be the best of times– unless it rains. Be a good Scout- and don’t forget the marshmallows!
You’re right! The best of times and the worst of times. Sleeping in that camper with the hickory nuts falling wasn’t much fun either but we still talk about that trip to this day. We are on to the next phase of memory making now – taking the grandkids camping.
Great story Debbie. I remember a lot of the stuff at Camp Maynard. I never made it all the way to the top of that steep hill because I referred to as “chubby”. But those days were fun and wonderful that I can still remember!
You did have the best of times💙