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| Reblogged from thisisnthappiness.com |
Monday, June 30, 2014
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Camping
"Becky says it's really cold, we should bring extra blankets and winter hats." Jaime gets the call as we're packing for our camping trip to Salmon Le Sac on Saturday morning.
It's 65 degrees with a high haze in the sky when we arrive. We're in site 66, which has a posted rate of $20 per night. There is no running water in the campground and the only facilities are pit toilets. Each site has a bench and fire pit. Ours happens to have an ancient USFS stone-and-mortar wood stove with a rusted stovepipe.
Most of my camping experiences were with my dad. We'd go to Idaho, Oregon, Eastern Washington. The last few were surfing trips to California. A couple of months ago at a gallery opening in Pioneer Square I ran into an old friend who'd gone on one of those last few trips with us (who was in town temporarily because his mother was in the late stages of emphysema) and he apologized to me for being "a dick" on the trip. I told him I didn't remember, so he shouldn't worry about it.
"We used to camp every summer for like a week," I tell Jaime in the car on the way up. "A week?" is her response. Jaime has never camped before, aside from some backyard childhood stuff.
The camp hosts are Jan and Henry. Prior to this trip I didn't even know of camp hosts as a thing. I have to pay them $8 for an "extra car" charge, which strikes me as totally reasonable. Firewood is $6 a bundle. They are elderly and apparently live in their fifth-wheel in the campground for the summer, cleaning bathrooms and collecting site fees. They've got a solar panel and a DirectTV dish. They've got one of those new Buicks that only old white people drive. Henry reads library copies of the sort of books you expect to see at airports and is missing an index finger.
Women love blankets. If you get a blanket as a gift for a man, he'll say, "I think you gift-wrapped the wrong box." Once assured it is in fact his gift he will set it aside and think "I guess someday I might need it, like if there's a natural disaster or something." Get one for a woman, and she will thank you, comment on how soft it is, and place it on her lap, as though her lap was missing it this whole time. Women are such aficionados that they have now integrated pashminas into their wardrobe, which is basically a blanket that you fold up and wear around your neck.
Camping represents, finally, an opportunity for a man to use an extra blanket, because camping is basically pretending that you've survived a natural disaster for a weekend. It also represents an opportunity for a female aficionado to really shine. Lap blankets, extra layers in the tent and giant scarves are all welcome around a campsite. Because of Becky's advance warning, we've brought three.
The campground really is in good, natural condition. We sit by the river with beers and talk about past camping experiences and Jaime's new hair. We play dominoes. We cook burgers. We debate the new $15 minimum wage and have whiskey by the fire late into the night. We make s'mores with organic peanut-butter cups. It's a nice night outdoors.
Jaime's report when we return home is brief, adequate: "It was fine, but I wouldn't do it again."
It's 65 degrees with a high haze in the sky when we arrive. We're in site 66, which has a posted rate of $20 per night. There is no running water in the campground and the only facilities are pit toilets. Each site has a bench and fire pit. Ours happens to have an ancient USFS stone-and-mortar wood stove with a rusted stovepipe.
Most of my camping experiences were with my dad. We'd go to Idaho, Oregon, Eastern Washington. The last few were surfing trips to California. A couple of months ago at a gallery opening in Pioneer Square I ran into an old friend who'd gone on one of those last few trips with us (who was in town temporarily because his mother was in the late stages of emphysema) and he apologized to me for being "a dick" on the trip. I told him I didn't remember, so he shouldn't worry about it.
"We used to camp every summer for like a week," I tell Jaime in the car on the way up. "A week?" is her response. Jaime has never camped before, aside from some backyard childhood stuff.
The camp hosts are Jan and Henry. Prior to this trip I didn't even know of camp hosts as a thing. I have to pay them $8 for an "extra car" charge, which strikes me as totally reasonable. Firewood is $6 a bundle. They are elderly and apparently live in their fifth-wheel in the campground for the summer, cleaning bathrooms and collecting site fees. They've got a solar panel and a DirectTV dish. They've got one of those new Buicks that only old white people drive. Henry reads library copies of the sort of books you expect to see at airports and is missing an index finger.
Women love blankets. If you get a blanket as a gift for a man, he'll say, "I think you gift-wrapped the wrong box." Once assured it is in fact his gift he will set it aside and think "I guess someday I might need it, like if there's a natural disaster or something." Get one for a woman, and she will thank you, comment on how soft it is, and place it on her lap, as though her lap was missing it this whole time. Women are such aficionados that they have now integrated pashminas into their wardrobe, which is basically a blanket that you fold up and wear around your neck.
Camping represents, finally, an opportunity for a man to use an extra blanket, because camping is basically pretending that you've survived a natural disaster for a weekend. It also represents an opportunity for a female aficionado to really shine. Lap blankets, extra layers in the tent and giant scarves are all welcome around a campsite. Because of Becky's advance warning, we've brought three.
The campground really is in good, natural condition. We sit by the river with beers and talk about past camping experiences and Jaime's new hair. We play dominoes. We cook burgers. We debate the new $15 minimum wage and have whiskey by the fire late into the night. We make s'mores with organic peanut-butter cups. It's a nice night outdoors.
Jaime's report when we return home is brief, adequate: "It was fine, but I wouldn't do it again."
Friday, June 27, 2014
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Thursday, June 5, 2014
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