Roughin' It

This past weekend I went camping in Maine. And while our site was called a “wilderness site,” for me it still had a lot of comforts of home.

For example, we brought our own grill to cook steak tips on. [for my friends in NJ/PA, this is a hot ticket item in New England. It’s like, why order a steak when I can order a steak already cut up in bite size pieces?] I remember camping once with my brother (an Eagle Scout) and he MADE our own campfire grate. How? By stripping off the bark of sapling branches to their greenery and weaving them together. I suggested this to Captain and he made a good point: when we arrive at our camp site after driving 4.5 hours and canoeing another hour, we’ll probably want to eat. Not start weaving a campfire grate.

We also had foam sleeping pads to put under our cushy sleeping bags. I’m currently reading a book about the Confederate Army during the Civil War who maybe had wool blankets in the wintertime. But for the most part, to keep warm, they would spoon each other in a long line, calling out “turn” every 20-30 minutes.

Granted we had an outhouse… but Captain wouldn’t recommend it. In fact, his exact words upon returning to our site were, “You’re staring at the face of regret.” He wasn’t alone in his bathroom venture. He was accompanied by spiders, creepy crawly things, and after spotting a hole at the back of the outhouse, I think there may have been a badger staring up at him. Back in the day, my best friend and I camped with her dad and he rigged up a 5-gallon bucket with a toilet seat. So when one of my friends unveiled a camping toilet on this trip, I was pretty excited. Until he yelled, “I just got fucking poop on my hands!” when he emptied it. Then we laughed in unison.

Last summer, I was floating in my tent. I have a friend who says it always rains when I go camping and it seems to be true. Last year on a camping trip I used my parents’ old tent and when it downpoured, all our sleeping bags and pillows were soaked. This time, I had my new tent and despite a thunder/lightning monsoon, everything inside the tent (and under the alcoves of the rainfly) stayed completely dry. Except my pants, because I nearly peed myself thinking I was going to be electrocuted.

Ok, I’ll admit. Bathing in the lake in 60-degree water with 3-foot-high waves was less than ideal. But it made showering at home feel like a night at the Ritz Carlton.