I went camping once.
On the way there I drove faster than I should have, and before anybody else arrived I was already somehow bleeding. I camp hard. When the rest of us manly men finally showed up there was a collection of firearms and bravado that rivaled that of the O.K. corral. It seems there is something magical in that Y chromosome that gets off on gunpowder.
Last night is a happy blur of testosterone-induced comradarie, cold air, hot fire, tall tales, bottle rockets, oscar meyer and ballpark.
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I was the first one up, the first to set out and forage for signs of life. I will tell you the things I found.
The barn smells musty. Outside, the tasteless grey shingles covering two sides are old and crumbling away to reveal portions of peat colored planks, aged to perfection and ripe with splinters. Inside the air is colored with light that struggles to penetrate the dusty windows, whose panes have attained that almost wrinkly quality, the poor posture that sets in with the passing of good years. Mouse dirt clutters the corners of the swept floor.
This morning is foggy.
It is cold, cold enough to see the breath blowing out of my big smile. The valley I am in is long. Near the far end of it (somewhat obscured by the mist) the grass is un-mowed, and there are a few trees planted with tall PVC pipes to protect them from hungry deer. We used the pipes to measure off distance for our makeshift rifle range. The grass itself is mostly free of frost, except for a few patches here and there; however, the left over limbs, cut logs, and benches arranged in a big circle around the fire pit all have patterns etched onto them by the cold. The maples by the river are all bare, making the smattering of evergreens dispersed among them even more striking. The stand of pines up on the hill seems to resent them for leaving, but begrudgingly regards them as family. The embers are still glowing from last night, leftovers from when I sat by them wishing to share their warmth with you. They need my attention, so I give it. I root around in the crumbled, smoldering bits of charcoal on the outside edges looking for small sticks that maybe (ironically) escaped the same tongues of flame whose heat protected them from the frost. Finding a few, I break them, and place them on top of a handful of the driest wet cut grass I can find. A few deep breaths later and the fire flickers to life. More twigs. Several trips to the stack of logs later I am out of breath, but my warm companion has fully caught its own. God stops by, and we enjoy each others company in silence.
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This morning for breakfast we dined on hotdog buns, which were skewered and toasted over the fire and then garnished with mayo and ketchup (we somehow miscalculated the number of dogs to buns). We also produced from the cooler some cream cheese, which was clumsily spread with someones dirty pocketknife. More shooting, and then clean up. Considering that we collected and burned nearly every bit of brush and trash within a ten mile radius, I would opine that we left the place looking better than we found it. One stop at sheetz, a much needed shower and emergency nap later, and I am back in civilization. In the world, but not of the world.. so to speak.
This weekend (this morning in particular) the words of a song played in my head.
Could we with ink the ocean fill
and were the skies of parchment made
Were every stalk on earth a quill
and every man a scribe by trade
To write the love of God above
would drain the oceans dry
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
though stretched from sky to sky.
I like life.
Psalm 148
