Camping Catalyst

What turned us into camping whack-os?(Jim would say "enthusiasts", but that's Jim. I say "Whack-o".) Getting back to the subject: Ever thought about it? I mean, outside the call-of-the-wild-off-the-treadmill-breathing-fresh-air sort of thing, what stared your run to the woods?

For me it was Yosemite. Not the densely packed, smog filled, commercialized nightmare we know today, with traffic gridlock clogging up those two narrow lanes, unending trains of tourist buses, like monstrous centipedes, belching smoke and disgorging their camera toting hoards who fill the landscape with trash and pollute the air with the stink of tobacco, sunblock and sweat. No, not that one.

The Yosemite I remember was golden. It was always crowded, true, but it was in a friendly, comfortable way. This was the crowd of the hometown neighborhood, where everyone watched each others' kids, helped the less experienced drivers manoeuvre their over large rental campers into those tiny spaces, assisted the "new guys" with their stubborn tent lines or Coleman lanterns and shared meals and songs around group campfires. It was a warm, joyous Yosemite where your ears rang with the music of bird song and laughing families, your mouths filled with flavors of fire-cooked food, wood smoke and pine pitch, your skin tingled with the sting of morning mists and the sharp slap of sudden sunshine and your blood raced through your veins like a pack of hounds chasing a fox. Everything there seemed more potent, more glorious, more magical than anything you had ever experienced before. Heck, even the dust sparkled. Oh, I remember Yosemite.

I remember how mom and dad would rise in the pitch dark, gather us kids and carry our little, slumbering, pajama clad bodies outside where they would pack us, along with our pillows and blankets, into the back of the station wagon and pull onto the road as the milkman drove by with the morning deliveries.

The sunrise usually woke us around Modesto. Here we would stop and, while dad gassed up, change out of our PJ's in the back of the car as mom handed out the milk and fried egg sandwiches. If we were really lucky, and dad had be fortunate enough to work overtime, we would troupe over to a small family diner and splurge on pancakes with real butter and true maple syrup-from Vermont! Sticky fingers and faces all washed up, we headed out again.

It was such a long drive back then. Interstate 580-the old MacArthur Freeway-stopped around Tracy and it was all little town driving from there on. You could take the short cut along old Priest Grade (named that because you didn't have a prayer of getting over without suffering a heart attack), but mom hated the sheer cliffs and sudden drop-offs around blind curves...and the speeding trucks that always seemed to take those curves on two wheels. Dad tried that way once and, after the claw marks from mom's nails faded a bit, decided it was wiser to take the longer, safer route: along the Merced River. This pleased the living daylights out of us kids because Priest Grade seemed like a nightmare while the river route was pure joy.

Ever take that river road to Yosemite? We would stop at the town of Merced for lunch, a fill-up and any last minute supplies (no gas stations or groceries stores in the valley in those days) then, with full tummies and empty bladders, we headed out on the last, best leg of the journey. The road would twist and coil it's self around granite walls and evergreen trees on the left while, on the right, the river played peek-a-boo: teasing us with a quick flash of sparkling water, like a sudden smile, before dashing behind a mass of boulders or a hopeless jumble of foliage. And all the while, the music of water on stone swirled and roared and laughed as if the river delighted in our presence. The river sang and we couldn't help but sing back. It was glorious!

Eventually, the road rose and the river pulled away as if bored with our games and wandered West in search of new playmates. The way became steep, twisting through a short cave and around a tall, narrow waterfall. At this point we kids would plaster ourselves to the car windows, hoping to be the first to spot our favorite and most important landmark: a great boulder shaped like the head of a bear. On sighting it, discordant shouts of, "There it is!", "I see it!", and "
See it, daddy-mom, see the bear?" rang through the car as all of us tried to climb into the front seat at the same time. Bedlam! It's a testament to dad's steely nerves and cool head that we didn't wind up wrapped around Sugar Pine.

And why were we so excited to see the stone bear, you ask? Because the bear sighting meant that we were less than twenty minutes from that final turn at the top of the pass; the turn with a wide pull-out and the most famous, most photographed, most magnificent panoramic view of Yosemite Valley. We never failed to stop; it was impossible not to so. Dad would squeeze the wagon into what space was available and we kids would tumble out, clamber and trip over the stones bordering the parking space and muscle our way in amongst the chattering tourists and photographers to lean over the railing
and gape slack-jawed at Nature at her finest.

Oh, that pass...and that view! It is the entire valley in one shot. To the left: El Capitan and the Three Brothers stand guard and hide the great Yosemite Falls in their shadows, while to the right is the glittering ribbon of Bridal Veil Falls, Glacier Point and the blue haze where massive Half Dome rises in the distance. All around, huge swaths of evergreen forests tuck themselves into any available space while granite cliffs, streaked and stained by untold centuries of ice and rain, stand crowned with ancient glaciers like so many pearl encrusted diadems. Below is the long, green snake of a valley where the diamond Merced twists it's way home. Unspeakable beauty.

This was heady stuff for a child of....three? My earliest memories of Yosemite do not include my baby brother, so I must have been just short of three years old. Yet it is so clear, so powerful it's no wonder camping is something I cannot, will not live without.

What happened when we returned to the car and drove into the valley is a tale for another time. I have been at it for two hours and this has gone on long enough for now.

Now, chime in with your stories. We'll share a bit and I'll continue this tale later.


Sue

 

Beautiful, Sue. Took me back to our first family camping trip. Except we had a 1981 Chevy Van that we resuscitated on nearly every trip. I remember my first "trout" that I caught fishing with my dad. Panfried it in butter with garlic. I didn't understand why nobody else wanted to share it--when I got older I figured out that a 4" fish was not more than a mouthful anyway. Thanks for sharing!
--Stelena

 

Sue, you are a great writer!

 

My father turned me on to camping. He spent 14 years in Alaska (before marriage) doing a mail run by dog team. When he returned to Minnesota he brought his dog team with him. He helped carry surveying equipment with his dog team and sled for the survey team of the GunFlint trail on the northern border of Minnesota. He loved the outdoors and took us (12 children) anywhere he could outdoors: camping, fishing, ice fishing, hunting for berries, tramping in the woods, all 4 seasons. My first camp out was on the Gun Flint trail with a heavy canvas tent, cooking on open fires and bathing in the cold lake. I loved it and camped until post-polio made it imposssible to tent camp. After 15 years not camping - I found Camp-Inn and am delighted to be camping again. Its an awesome way to revive the mind, body and spirit.

 

Pat, I welcome you back to camping.

I remember as a child in the late 50s, having everything my Dad and brother and I could use for a few days while in the woods hunting, jammed, crammed, folded, stored or tied onto the outside of a WWII jeep. We would begin our odysseys when the leaves were changing to the fall colors. There would be regular pilgrimages to the back woods of Tennessee thru the winter. There was an old canvas wall tent, cots, sleeping bags, and wood heaters, thick bacon with the rind. When the leaves yielded to the first snows, the anticipation of a longer hunt over the Christmas holidays was more than a 7 year old could stand. I will continue to hunt. It is a life sport. I have seen so many sunrises and sunsets. The cold, quiet, solitary, walk back to camp with stars as only can be seen away from the lights of the town is still the same walk today as it was 50 years ago. Memories give me a firm attachment to the land. There is perfection in nature. It only losses it's gleam from the abuse we place on it.
My old bones seek rest at the end of a long day in the woods. Our 550 is a welcome sight at the end of the trail.
It is the simplistic epitome of class, convenience, and quality. My catalyst for camping is my understanding that a full belly and a warm bed can be a perfect day. My Camp-Inn is the evidence I have accomplished other necessary task in life and have chosen to never turn my back on the land, and enjoy it, and respect it, and maintain the attachment my Dad instilled, almost from birth.

Steve

 

Well said Steve!
Charlie

 

George, Charlie, thanks.
I have been off line for various reasons over the last few months. The next couple of months I want have much free time but a new air card and computer will make my absences fewer and shorter.
Steve

 

My folks took me out camping for the first time when I was only 5 weeks old. Mom was a bit concerned and asked the doctor if this was a good idea to which he replied "Why not? The Indians did it".
47 yrs later I still camp at the same spot and I'd like to think the experience has helped make me a better person.
Thank's Mom & Dad.

J&B

 

J&B,

Now that's a doctor after my own heart! Thanks for the story. Who else has one? Lets hear it, guys.

Sue

 

Jim and I have been away in Oregon for a family service to remember my sweet, sweet niece who, thanks to the marvels-and blind avarice-of modern medicine, was suddenly taken from us two weeks ago. It's been very hard and I am in desperate need of something good, so here is a continuation of my early Yosemite memories. I think I'll limit it to one specific trip. It was the mid 1950's (yes, I'm THAT old) and we had just pulled away from the valley overlook along the Merced River route.......

Our 1950 navy blue Ford station wagon (which looked to all the world like a panel van with windows) shimmied it's way down the last leg of our five hour trip. All of us kids had our noses pressed to the windows hoping to be the first to spy the turnout for our first stop in the valley: Bridal Veil Falls. My older brother, Johnny, had the sharpest eyes and beat my sister, Rae, and me to the punch.

"There it is!", he hollered jumping across the bench seat, plastering me to the floor board in his excitement-no seat belts in those days. I was squalling in protest as mom reached over the front seat, hauled Johnny up and on to Grandma's lap with one hand while deftly plucking me from the floor with the other. I was still glowering at Johnny as mom brushed dust and cracker crumbs from my overalls (red corduroy, as I remember). Grandma, dad and Rae were highly amused.

We pulled into the dusty, unpaved parking area at the base of the Bridal Veil trail. This was to be our first hike of the trip and we were eager to get out of the car and stretch our cramped legs. Grandma was about to open the door when dad suddenly reached back and stopped her.

"Everybody stop and stay still," he whispered. He put his finger to his lips-the sign for silence-and pointed to the left as he pulled out his film camera. We all looked in that direction and our eyes stretched wide. There, not fifty feet from us, sitting as proud as you please in a dusty sun beam, was an enormous golden brown bear. Propped on his beam end, like some majestic foreign potentate accepting tribute, the bear was surrounded by several of the lesser intelligent members of the camping community who were tossing food at him. Catching morsels in mid air, the bear blithely munched away as dad's camera whirled to life. All of us kids were slack-jawed with wonder... Mom was not happy at all.

"Johnny, Johnny (yeah, dad was a John, too). Drive away!", mom tugged at dad's arm.

"It's okay," dad assured her. "We'll be alright as long as the food lasts." Such timing. At that exact moment the food did run out. The bear, seeing that nothing else was forthcoming, lurched to his paws. The crowd scattered like spooked bunnies. It was a wonder that during the ensuing panic no one's car collided with another. If there were any fender benders, nobody was interested in exchanging information.

Dad continued to film as the bear gazed around for a moment before deciding on a path....straight towards our car! We watched in amazement as a pickup with a camper shell (and a remarkably unobservant driver) pulled to a stop right in front of the bear. A middle-aged woman with soup can hair rollers hopped out of the camper and found herself nose to nose with the bear. I never saw someone move so fast! She was back in that camper and the truck was out of there; kicking a cloud of dirt and rocks on to a now very pissed bear. Dad chuckled as the camera continued to whirl...and the bear continued on his path to us! Mom was frantic.

"Damn it, Johnny, MOVE!" I had never heard anyone swear before, let alone my mother! Grandma and us kids stared at mom in stunned silence as she continued to yank on dad's arm. But he didn't seem to hear or feel her at all and just sat in the driver's seat of an idling car in the path of an angry bear. And then mom did something amazing.

Mom was ever and always a quiet, Edwardian mannered lady. Trained by Old World parents to be the perfect wife, she would never speak first or push her own opinions. Until this day! In this one moment of peril for her babies, mom came into her own. Throwing aside a lifetime of inhibition, she shoved dad to the side, grabbed the steering wheel and jammed her foot on the gas! The car lurched off. Dad yelped (his foot had been on the gas peddle and was crunched in the fray), dropped the camera and, taking control of the steering wheel from mom, drove away from the bear.

Dad drove on to camp seven (that's the "Northern Pines" camp site to you youngsters). All the way, mom chewed him out in no uncertain terms and marked the more important points with punches to his right shoulder. Dad took it all in silence; his jaw clamped shut. He knew she was right and was man enough to accept it.

We all sat wide-eyed and silent in the back. We had never seen mom angry at dad. She had never struck him before-and never did again. It was not that type of marriage. Their love was peaceful and unshakable. Violence was never a part of their lives, but dad had been young and stupid that day. In his excitement to capture something unique, he had forgotten there were kids in the car and, by endangering us, pushed mom over the top.

Now that I think about it, this was a pivotal moment in her life. Mom slowly became more outgoing and assertive after this. As for dad, he was always loving, strong and supportive. He approved and aided in her blossoming maturity and loved her all the more. But this was to be seen only in time as we kids matured as well. As it stood on that Summer day, we only knew there had been a great adventure with a bear, dad had been silly and mom had punched him with her tiny white fist until his arm was sore. It was all so very funny and so quickly dismissed in our excitement as we drove into our camp site along the Merced.

And the day was still young. More of this particularly eventful trip later. For now, my hands are as sore as my heart.

Someone else contribute a memory. Make it fun.

Later, gaters.

Sue

 

Ya know, Jenn...

You can always drag your sleeping bag out of the CI and stare up at the sky all night. If your bod can still handle the ground, you might find it fun now and then. Or you could do what my dad did: take a hammock and sling it between two trees for the night. Just don't let a bunch of rowdy kids swing on it all day before hand (like we did one summer in Yosemite). That way you won't have to worry about the rope breaking in the middle of the night and unceremoniously dumping your backside in the dust.

Boy, was dad ever pissed! Riot.

Sue

 

Yeah, poor dad. He was so mad he refused to come in the tent and lay on the ground all night....I think all the giggling from us kids didn't help his mood much.

And speaking of giggling kids and dad and tents, maybe it's time to continue with that trip to Yosemite. Wander back with me now to that golden summer in 1957 or 1958??? Whatever. We pulled into our favorite area: camp 7.....

That poor old dusty station wagon groaned to a stop. The doors flew open and out tumbled my sister, brother and yours truly. Yelling, squeaking and clambering over each other like a tipped basket of over excited puppies, we tore around "helping" the adults unload the car. We managed to trip our parents several times until Grandma pulled some snacks out of the cooler and sent us down to the Merced to wash. It was an instant race to see who could get to the river, splash clean in that ice cold water, then get back to camp and plop down on the bench first. Grandma (that cleaver woman) was never satisfied with the washing up part and had us running back and forth several times until she deemed us clean enough for peanut butter and jelly on graham crackers, banana slices and lemon aid. In one fell swoop, she had us clean, silent (full mouths are mostly silent) and out from under foot. By the time we finished off the snacks, dad and mom had the car unloaded and the tent up.

I have no idea what the adults did for entertainment, but for me the day was spent with my brother and sister down by the river. Dressed in bathing suits and thongs (the flip-flops of today), we would divide our time between the sun-baked shore and the freezing water. I recall lying on a towel by a huge tree and lazily dangling my right foot in a small pool, tempting the water skimmers to nip at my toes. The water, which only hours before had been part of a glacier, had me pink and shivering under that tree. But the afternoon heat had slowly seeped into my tiny frigid body until the shivering stopped and I lay dazed, warm and sleepy.

It's funny how clearly I can recall that moment over fifty years ago. The valley was ringing with the voices of hundreds of families, bird calls, wind song and, beneath it all, the thunder of the river and waterfalls. Still, I could hear my brother and sister laughing and bickering as they attempted drowning each other. The earth beneath my towel was solid yet soft; a century-thick shelf of compacted pine needles, fragrant and warm from the sun. The sky was clear, high and light..cloudless...endless, with the tree branches moving sharp and black against it's pure azure. Beauty in it's purest form.

As I lay there, I imagined myself the tiny center of a very personal universe. My toes pointed west across the Merced to Glacier Point and the sinking sun, Half Dome was behind my head. On my left was the foot bridge and the road that lead to Camp Curry with it's smelly tent cabins and the fly infested stables. To my right the Three Brothers stood sentinel and behind them, just a sliver of a view to Yosemite Falls and El Capitan. Everything around me was vibrant, alive and in motion, but I was still...still, warm and totally at peace. I smiled at the sky and God smiled back.

And I will leave you with that smile. Until I can break away for the continuation of this story, I give you peace.

Sue

 

It's getting awfully close to Christmas Eve, but I'm not panicking. The shopping is done, presents wrapped, the menu set and I find I have some spare time. Well, what a surprise! Now what shall I do with this time? HHhhhhmmmmmmmm....... I could soak in a hot bubble bath or open another bottle of that wonderful wine my sister, Rae, gave me...or break out the DVDs, flop on the sofa and vegetate.

Nah! Think I'll continue the Yosemite trip.

When we left our intrepid little family, the adults had the camp fully set, the kids were merrily drowning each other in the river and the sun was on it's way down...

Dinner in Yosemite was timed to the setting sun. As soon as it dipped behind Glacier Point and the first hint of chill shimmered down the valley, mom would call her unruly pack of brats in from the river. Well, dad would that is. We usually made so much noise that we simply didn't hear mom's call, but dad had this ear-splitting whistle that would register for miles (I swear the Berkeley lab could pick it up sometimes). One high-pitched shrill and we would hot foot it to the camp site where we found three things waiting for us: dry clothes, hot food and grandma.

Grandma shooed us into the tent to change and was waiting in ambush as we came out. Her firm belief was that kids equal dirt and fully expected that somewhere between the river and the few short feet to the campsite, we would manage to get ourselves absolutely filthy. Of course we did and she was there with a bowl of hot water, soap and a wash cloth.

I remember howling in indignation as grandma scrubbed me pink. Rae and Johnny had a good laugh at my expense, but not for long. Grandma grabbed them each in turn and the laughter was all mine. Then, squeaky clean, we all sat down for dinner.

Mom usually cooked on the old Coleman stove, but dad always had a big fire going in the pit to keep the mosquitoes away. I don't know if it was the excitement of being in the valley or the smokey pine filled air, but food was so much tastier at the camp. It could be beef stew or chili and hot dogs or anything simple, but somehow simple became fabulous. We sat with our parents and grandma and merrily stuffed ourselves as the light faded from the sky. The fire burned brighter as the sky drifted from light blue to pink to gold, then various shades of purple until it darkened to the deepest Prussian Blue and the first stars blazed to life.

Dinner finished, we would help mom and grandma clean up as dad slung a line over a tall branch and hoisted the food container up ten feet and out of bear reach (no bear proof lockers in those days). The chores done, we sat around the fire telling stories and roasting marshmallows...and waiting.

Ah yes-waiting in Yosemite at sundown. There was nothing more exciting than that in the 1950's. And why? Two words: Fire Fall! These were the days before the environmental movement and the CDF had their way, the days when the Department of the Interior was still heavily into "use" of Federal lands and would allow almost anything to bring in the crowds (for crowds read revenue). Yosemite had a doozie of a way to please the crowds.

It would begin in the wee hours of the morning when workers would bring all the fallen timber and debris to the top of Glacier Point and start a burn pile. They would build and stoke the pile all day, nursing it until they had a huge mass of white hot embers by sunset. And then they would wait, wait for the voices to begin in the valley.

We would sit around our campfire, silent, expectant, listening for it to start. And then, somewhere far off in another camp, someone would call a name: Wilbur. Dad told us it started sometime in the late 1800's when a small boy was lost and never found. He said the searchers hunted all night and you could hear them calling his name throughout the valley and that it had become a tradition at each sunset to call for the lost boy. And so we called, too. First one voice to the left and then another to the right joined us as the name was taken up and passed from camp to camp. "Wilbur! WWWiiiiillllbuuurrr!" The name started as a lonesome, mournful call, echoing in the silent valley. Growing in strength, it doubled in on it's self, collided, shattered and doubled again until, no longer mournful, a joyous shout careened off the granite walls.

We called and called until, at some signal sensed rather than seen, everyone stopped. Hardly daring to breath, we froze in place and listened. It came from high and far above us: "Fire Fall...!" Our heads snapped around and all eyes were on the top of Glacier Point as the bulldozers roared to life and pushed the now monstrous burn pile towards the cliff edge.

The cliff, sharp black against the star strewn sky, grew bright at the peak as if the sun had lost a favorite toy and came back in search. The glow intensified from deep red to brilliant gold until, white hot, it suddenly tipped over the edge. Down the cliff face spilled the burning embers. Tumbling, swirling and dancing, the embers transformed into a great ribbon of flame that rivaled Yosemite Falls in majesty.

But Yosemite Falls is fed by an eternal glacier, the fire fall by a wood pile and therefore not eternal. All too soon the blazing brilliance cooled and faded and died. A universal "Aaawwwww" rose up from the campgrounds as the last of the embers blew away. A spattering of applause and a few whistles floated about, but the spell of the Fire Fall was broken and everyone began to move and prepare for sleep.

And sleep we did, but not without one more adventure for that most memorable first day....which I will tell you about later.

Let me hear it: "AAAAaaaawwwwww!"


Camp on,

Sue

 

AAAaaawwwww....
Seriously, Sue, we think (and we're sure there are more) that these stories and we're sure there are many many more should eventually be published in some form be it e-book or traditional. You truly have a gift that should be shared more widely.

 

Yeah, Jenn. It was unbelievably beautiful - and incredibly stupid on sooooo many levels. Just imagine what one spark floating off in the wrong direction could have done! They say you can't fix stupid and perhaps they're right. Stopping the Fire Falls was a rare smart move by those Bozos in charge of Yosemite. But then they go and spoil it by bulldozing a huge section in the valley, building a cheep strip mall and selling the concession and transportation contract to the highest bidder (out of country). Nothing says "I Love Nature" like pollution belching diesel buses, cheap trinkets made in China and pizza by the slice. It's enough to make one despair. That's not the Yosemite I remember.

My Yosemite didn't have a shopping mall, traffic jams and parking lots. You parked at your camp site and walked or road your bike or a horse to your destination. You brought your own food and gas as there was none available in the valley. The only buildings were the tiny post office/museum, a chapel, Ansel Adam's itty-bitty studio and that big old hotel way far away from the camps. It was crowded and noisy, sure, but compared to what is going on there now...my Yosemite was darned near pristine.

It is a down right crying shame to see what has become of my valley...but not surprising. The knuckleheads who have run/ruined Yosemite come from the shallow end of the gene pool. These are the type who believe in making use of national parkland - and by "use" I mean profit. Yeah, profit from mineral rights and logging rights so the ancient forests are clear cut for their timber and river beds, mountain sides and secluded valleys are gutted for precious metals, oil deposits or just rock to gravel our roads. The type of jackasses who decided California didn't need two majestic valleys and turned the Hetch-Hetchy into a mud puddle, for crying out loud!!

I don't mean to rant.....but I did.

Anyway, the Fire Falls were beautiful. I hope the valley will be so again, soon.

Keep on camping,

Sue

 

Alright then. This is the last day of 2011 and it seems best to end my story with the end of the year.

When we left off, dinner was eaten, the final embers of the Fire Falls had cooled and vanished, leaving a fading ghost image on our retinas, and the last marshmallows were roasted and devoured. Once again we were corralled by grandma and scrubbed within an inch of our lives. Sticky fingers in the tent were a no-no. After a half-hearted attempt at rebellion (it's hard to protest when you're yawning every other word) and a last glance at the evening stars, we trooped over to the tent. We spent the next few minutes inside the tent changing into our PJs and throwing pillows and old socks at each other. A tickle fest ensued.

"All right, kids. Knock it off", dad's mellow baritone put and end to our nonsense. We climbed into our sleeping bags, but couldn't resist popping up and peaking out the tent at mom and dad.

Grandma had gone to the restrooms to prepare for bed in peace and quiet while mom and dad relaxed by the dying fire, talking quietly and enjoying the last of the hot chocolate. I slipped over to the tent flap and peered through the opening at my parents.

Children look with the eyes of love and see their parents as wondrous creatures. As I gazed at that quiet young couple in the firelight, it was as if I were truly seeing them for the first time. Mom had curled her slim, five-foot-nothing frame into a camp chair. The glow of the fire turned her ivory skin peach, her short, poodle-cut platinum hair gold and her sea-gray eyes amber. Tiny and delicate, she was the palest of the pale, blue-blooded Scots; a porcelain doll in peddle pushers. Dad was her opposite. Tall and athletic, he was the handsome result of an English mother and a Maltese father. A Golden Gloves boxer with the face of a young Cary Grant, dad's pale skin, thick black mop, flashing smile and sparkling coffee brown eyes made him a stand-out in any crowd. They were young, in their mid twenties and a remarkably handsome pair.

I stood in that tent, staring at my parents and feeling as if my heart would burst out of my chest, they were so beautiful. Dad flashed one of his wicked smiles that he saved just for mom and said something under his breath. Mom leaned her head toward him and listened; a slow smile spread across her lovely face. She reached out her hand, touched his and their fingers interlocked... And then the flash of headlights shattered the moment.

Dad looked up in annoyance as a late arrival pulled up to the campsite next to ours. An overheated Mercury sedan pulling a rented mini Airstream bounced to a stop and an excitable young man hopped out. He took a quick look around then called over to dad.

"Hey, can you give me a hand with parking this thing? First time I ever tried one of these and I'm not too good at maneuvering."

Dad gave mom the "sorry, baby" look, kissed her fingers and headed over to aid the babe in the woods. After much huffing and puffing...and almost running over dad's toes...the new guy finally managed to park his beast. He was all gratitude.

"Hey, thanks a million! Now hold on a second. I want to show you something." He smiled, rummaged through the giant Coleman cooler in the back of his car for a bit and pulled out an enormous slab of bacon wrapped in butcher paper. "Come on over for breakfast tomorrow, you and all your family. I got plenty to share!" He grinned and patted the bacon for good measure.

"That would be nice," dad said. "Would you like me to help you get that stuff slung up a tree?"

"Nope," new guy said. "I've got a much easier, bear-proof place for this baby!" To dad's astonishment, the guy opened the hood of his car, plopped the bacon on top of the engine block and slammed the hood down. He gave the hood another of his loving little pats, tossed a quick wave in dad's direction then climbed into the trailer. The door closed with a final "click". Dad just stood there with his hands on his hips and shook his head. It was mom's voice that called him back.

"Johnny, isn't that a mistake?"

Dad turned to her and smiled, "It certainly is. He traveled all the way from Stockton and that engine is red hot."

Mom looked from the trailer to dad, "What do you think we should do?"

Dad walked over and helped her out of the chair, "I think we should go to bed."

Grandma came over from the restrooms and mom brought her up to speed on the latest events as dad doused the fire. Grandma was none too pleased. "That will bring the bears for sure," she grumbled as she entered the tent. That got our attention.

"Dad," my brother squeaked, "are the bears going to come tonight?"

"Yep," dad grinned, "but they won't be coming to OUR tent."

Everyone quickly settled down and just before dad turned out the lantern, grandma got back up. She dug around in her purse a minute, clambered over her sleeping bag encased grandchildren and started fussing at the bottom of the tent flap. Mom and dad just looked at her in confusion. Finally satisfied, grandma returned to her spot. Mom stared at her for a minute.

"Mother," she said, "what were you doing with the tent?"

"Just putting a safety pin through the zipper," grandma said.

Mom was even more confused. "Why did you put a safety pin through the zipper?" Dad started to snicker.

Grandma just looked at mom and then in the most matter-of-fact voice explained, "It's to keep the bears out."

It took a second... I never laughed so hard before. Dad was choking and mom pounded him on the back while she howled until the tears came. Grandma just sat there looking a bit huffed and that made everything worse. It would be a full hour before we finally calmed down enough to sleep. I remember lying there, rubbing my sore stomach muscles and wondering if bears could be confounded by safety pins. I drifted to sleep with the wonderful aroma of cooking bacon drifting on the breeze...

Sometime in the wee morning hours, the sounds woke us. A low grumbling huff followed by something like the cross between a yowl and the screech you get from a rusty gate being yanked off it's hinges. We all froze in our tent. We knew that sound...it was a bear! Dad shushed us when one one of us whimpered. "Don't be afraid," he calmed us, "it's over on the other side."

Just then the bear hollered. There was the shriek of rending metal followed by a man's yell then foot steps running away. Dad got up and poked his head out of the tent (undeterred by the safety pin) as mom tried to pull him back. He assured her everything was okay and stepped outside to join the growing crowd who had come over to investigate. Eventually he returned, told us not to worry and sent us all back to bed. Being a child, dad's work was good enough for me and I immediately drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, we all joined the rangers and a crowd of onlookers at the new guy's campsite. The trailer door was ajar, the trailer empty, the Mercury was missing it's hood and the bacon was no where to be seen. The new guy was gone. We found out later he was discovered hiding in the bushes behind the restroom....two campgrounds over.


The rest of the week was a blur of water and sunshine, but I never forgot that first day with the long ride through the mountains, the lazy hours by the river, the campfire and the Fire Falls, the bacon, the bear and grandma's safety pin. And the wonder of seeing my parents young, beautiful, immortal and in love. It's no wonder I love camping.

And now it's time for someone elses' tales of wonder and discovery! Come on, now. We're all comfortable and sitting down...let's have a story!

Sue

 

Thanks for the "rest of the story" as Paul Harvey used to say.
We enjoyed it very much!!
Dave and Rene

P.S. We hope there is another one some day!

 

Sue,

Thanks for the great memories.

Jean