I made a deal with my husband Garth when we were first married. He wouldn’t ask me to go camping
and I wouldn’t ask him to go shopping. This seemed like a fair trade-off, since
he could enjoy his favorite pastime with his buddies and I could do the same
with mine. He kept up his end of the
deal for a long time - until the call of the wild got the best of him. That's when he began to extoll the pleasures of the great outdoors, begged me to join
him hiking and fishing at one of his favorite spots in the California Sierra’s.
I struggled to hold on to our original deal, because the closest I had ever come to roughing it was a motel with an outdoor
pool. But, in a weak moment, I agreed.
I didn’t really
mind hiking. It was one of the few outdoor activities I enjoyed – unless the
hike took place in woods that teemed with wildlife whose bite required
emergency evacuation.
But I wasn’t too
keen on fishing. My only recollection of that activity was when I threw a
ping-pong ball in a bowl and won a goldfish at a carnival. I also worried about
sleeping arrangements. I’d already paid
for my chiropractor’s new car, so huddled in a bag on the ground would just
give me another big pain in my back - and wallet. The more I thought about it,
the less attractive the camping excursion became.
Determined
to discourage Garth from pressing the issue, I created a fool proof prerequisite
list and presented it to him.
“I’ll do it, as long as there is a sink with
running water, a stove to cook on, a bed to sleep in and an indoor bathroom - with
a shower.”
“Can it be a group
shower/bathroom facility?” he asked.
“No way - private or nothing.” I was sure I
had him on that one.
A few days went by
and I heard nothing more about the camping adventure. I relaxed, convinced I’d
delivered an impossible request.
My Meriwether
Lewis was not daunted. “Okay, I found a place that meets all your
requirements.” He handed me information on the campsite, complete with photo of
an A-Frame cabin nestled among some trees.
“I see woods.” I
said.
“Not dense, just
scattered trees.” He answered.
“What’s the
catch?” I countered.
“No catch. Well,
just a little one. The cabin sleeps eight and there’s just the two of us.” For
some odd reason, he found this paradox ridiculous.
“Perfect.” I groaned
and sealed the deal.
We arrived at the A-frame
that would be our ‘camp’ for the next week. My hubby opened the door and said,
“Wow. This is awesome. What a great place.”
I stood in the
doorway, stunned into silence.
The old wooden
floors had so many layers of earth ground into them they were now part of the
décor. A wall, black with soot, surrounded an ancient pot-bellied stove which required
wood be chopped and hauled in to heat the cabin. Greasy kitchen cabinets
sported threadbare fabric door fronts which hid dented pans and plastic dishes.
Dirt being my nemesis, I was afraid to touch anything. And when I spotted a vermin carcass on the
floor in the corner, horror struck. Ready to bolt out the door, I remembered my
promise to Garth.
Resigned to my
fate, I resolved to be a good sport, put on my “happy camper” face. I did my
best to join hubby in his enthusiasm, but didn’t move a muscle until he’d he
removed the dead critter to those great outdoors. I rallied in the knowledge
that at least I had my indoor toilette.
The next morning I
applied moleskin to every square inch of my feet. This was an important
precaution to prevent blisters from the hiking boots that I had only worn twice
before. It didn’t help.
We headed for the
hills, hiked to hubby’s favorite fishing spot. I looked away as he positioned
the poor little worm on my hook. I followed his instructions and cast my line
out as far as I was able. Beginners luck, I caught the first fish - a nice
trout.
The resistance of
the fish as it struggled on the line made me shudder. I eased off and gently
tugged on the pole.
“Harder,” Garth
yelled, “Pull it in, pull it in…harder.”
I envisioned the
hook caught in trout lips. “But I don’t want to hurt the fish.” I whined in
response.
“Don’t be
ridiculous. Just reel him in. Fish don’t
have any feeling in their mouths,” declared Mr. Heartless Fish Expert.
“How do you know?
You’re not a fish.” I flashed on The Old
Man and the Sea as I tried to reel in the trout. True, I was no Santiago
and this was no marlin but the struggle felt the same.
“It’s no use,” I panted to Garth, “I can’t do
it. You pull him in.”
In one quick
swoop, the fish was out of the water, on the ground, flapping for dear life. I
couldn’t look. We decided to strike another deal. I’d catch ‘em, he’d reel ‘em
in. Our system worked perfectly, since I was the only one who caught any fish
that day.
As days passed,
things progressed in much the same way - deal after deal, compromise after
compromise. However, towards the end of the week a strange phenomenon occurred.
I came to appreciate the solitude, the delicious fresh fish dinners and the
romantic warmth of that crazy stove. I even admitted to Garth that I’d enjoyed our
time in the Sierras.
But
even though I loved my great outdoorsman, his notions of future wilderness treks
with me would have to be re-lived through memories of snuggles in the A-frame
with his little “Sacajawea” and photos of our week together. One adventure was
enough for camping wimps like me.
©Marcia Smart 2013 all rights reserved
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