“What a hassle,” my husband
complains as he wedges the camping table into the overloaded bed of
our pickup truck. “You know, we’re going to spend less time in the
mountains than we spent packing all this stuff. Why was it we
wanted to go camping?” he asks half-seriously.
That
started me thinking. Why do we go to all this trouble to sleep in
the cold, deprived of basic modern conveniences, getting grimy and
looking funky? Why is heating a can of pork “n” beans over a
Coleman stove appealing? Why is a summer without camping
incomplete? Most people say camping is an escape from everyday
complexity, but I’m thinking the answer lies deeper.
We
bump over gravelly washboards on the road through the desert, the
Wind River Mountains of Wyoming ahead. They’ve beckoned us all year
from our kitchen window, a distance of 40 miles. As we ascend
through aspen groves, then pine forest, the air cools and the road
becomes a steep, rocky obstacle course. We’re headed for the
headwaters of the Little Sandy River, a spot we’ve returned to for
about 15 years.
We like to pitch our tent near a certain
bend in the river, which becomes little more than a trickle in the
valley below. Here, pines shelter our tent, framing a view of five
peaks over 10,000 feet. Here, we are just steps away from casting
our flies into water.
Once, we found someone else camping
in our spot and had to go elsewhere. Another time, previous campers
defiled our space with a mess of disposable diapers and broken beer
bottles. This time, the only sign of previous use is a stack of
wood left by the fire pit, reminding us that most campers are
considerate.
As afternoon clouds threaten rain, we hurry
to set up the tent, a 10-by-16 canvas affair with room for cots,
and a canopy to shelter the camping table and chairs. Once in
place, our tent seems like a homey cabin. We didn’t always camp
here in such luxury. Our early forays were in a 1967 jeep. Then our
garage-sale tent had little headroom, and we spread our air
mattress and sleeping bags on the ground. When we bought a truck
with a camper shell, we emptied it of gear and slept inside. In our
backpacking phase, we used a tiny umbrella tent. On our last
backpacking trip we met as many people on the trail as a city
sidewalk. But at our special camping spot we rarely encounter
anyone. From here, we day-hike without those 40-pound packs.
We now know the best fishing places and where the willows
will snag our line — every time. We know that below us beaver
dams have created a swampy tangle impossible to fish and that a
mile above us the river descends through the pines banked with moss
and wetland wildflowers. There, trout rise eagerly to our flies.
We anticipate the moment when sunset brings alpenglow to
the five gray peaks. Then, the stream reflects pink clouds and
acrobatic nighthawks, swooping like kites in an erratic wind. Trout
surface, making ripples in ever-widening circles. The wind breathes
through the forest; the stream burbles over the beaver dams.
Pine-bough shadows dance on the tent walls, and wood smoke mingles
with the piney fragrance. When it’s dark, we draw close to the
fire’s warmth, watching the moon rise and the stars emerge.
Because our cooler keeps ice for five days, that is
usually the limit of our camping trips. And, honestly, by then we
need a shower. We hike up river to fish once more, using barb-less
hooks since we are satiated with trout. Reluctantly, we take down
the tent after lunch and pack for the journey back to everyday
life.
I think I know the answer to the question I started
with. We camp to return to the conditions that formed us, to get an
inkling of how mountain men and pioneers felt. I like the way
Wallace Stegner put it in a letter explaining what draws us to
wilderness; he said it’s the only place we can feel “part of the
environment of trees and rocks and soil, brother to the other
animals, part of the natural world and competent to belong in it.”
At first, we camped along this mountain stream to encounter
wilderness; now, our repeated experiences make us feel as if we
belong here.
Marcia Hensley is a contributor to
Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News (hcn.org) in Paonia, Colorado. She writes in
Wyoming’s Eden Valley.
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