"camp" is a four-letter word
(excerpt from Thursday, July 24, 2003 journal entry)
. . .
I am going camping this weekend. This is not a household phrase I use often.
On my packing list (I'm fanatical about lists), I have listed bug spray, my current read, and big bottle of tequila.
As my boyfriend teasingly points out, technically, I am not going camping. I am going "cabinning." This is a very big thing in the Midwest. Everyone's uncle or brother-in-law has a cabin a couple hours away. Still, the cabin has neither electricity nor running water. It's the closest thing to camping I've come to in the past six years, the first being the time I slept in front of a train station in Rome after an all-night concert. I attempted another camping trip in the Badlands a few years back. The wind was so fierce that we spent most of the night straddling down the corners of his tent with our arms and legs to prevent it from whirling away Dorothy-in-Oz-style. We finally gave up, folded ourselves into the back of his Saturn, smoked a joint too dry and too old, and shared a cheap bottle of merlot until we dozed off. I have had neither the patience nor opportunity to camp since.
Until now. So I am going camping this weekend.
I'm going with a work friend, a very chatty one. It started out rather inconspicuously, her mentioning how fun it would be to drive down to stay at her uncle's cabin, me absent-mindedly nodding in agreement, trying to use the cutting board with one hand. Next thing you know, she has her uncle's permission, a set date, and a slew of buddies she's already asked. Sure, I'll go, already thinking of an excuse that "unfortunately arises" just mere days before the date. It never materialized. I was suddenly seized with the romantic notion of roughing it, imagining myself identifying poisonous berries from my North American field guide, careful not to stain my white linen safari J. Crew button-down. When reality returned, it was too late to cancel, and seeing as how all her other buddies bailed out, I would have felt guilty denying her the trip. The tequila better do it's magic.
It's currently 6:52 p.m. I have a load of laundry going and an hour before the liquor store closes.
. . .
I survived.
The first day was great. Everything was very "quaint" and "fresh." The second day was hell. I melted, solidified, then melted again. The third day had me kicking camping ass.
We begin early on Friday morning. Leaving Minneapolis around 10 a.m., we took our time winding down to her uncle’s cabin in lower Minnesota. It's not even in a town-proper; the closest little rural town is five miles northwest, Cherry Oak.
We took the scenic route, driving along the great Mississippi River on the Great River Road. Picturesque. We stopped in Wabasha, MN to check out The Anderson House, made famous by their option to rent a cat. They own somewhere between ten to fourteen cats. During the day, the cats doze in The Cat Room in little bunkbeds with their names painted on the front. As cats are generally illiterate, they weren't sleeping in their designated area. Luckily, there were photos identifying the felines. One in particular, Aloysuis, said he should only be rented out by the "serious cat-lover."
We stopped at a local grocery store to pick up our weekend rations. Loaf of bread, fig newtons, beef jerky and squeeze cheese, yum. Lots of bottled water and we were ready to get to the cabin. We stopped off at a county museum which was surprisingly chock-full of great historical gems, including the two white-haired ladies who welcomed us in.
We got there around 5 p.m. We drove past rows of rows of cornfields which grew field corn (corn grown especially to feed livestock, too hard for human consumption). So after rows and rows of field corn cornfields, we took a sharp left into what looked like more rows of corn. Beneath the overgrowth, we bumped along the skinny path into a small clearing with a small, squat brown cabin set in the middle. My friend jerked her thumb over to an even smaller squat, brown hut and said what will be forever etched into this camping memory, "outhouse."
The cabin was great. Small, dark, no fussy electrical outlets, just two small, functional couches, a wood-burning stove and a long, sturdy kitchen table that had obviously been polished until it gleamed. We poured ourselves some whiskey (in place of the tequila) and sat outside, reading and fighting off the bugs. I forgot the bug spray. I also fought off the urge to pee for nearly three hours.
It was hot and very, very muggy by the time it got dark, around 10. We plopped ourselves onto the couch and bitched about work until we fell asleep.
The next day, we drove through the small southern towns of Minnesota, heading for Decorah, Iowa for their big Swedish festival. We drove through Harmony, a small Minnesota town famous for its Amish community and ware. Alongside the roads are "Amish Byways," an extra strip of road for Amish buggies to clop along their own pace. I ogled them from afar through the lens of my silvery bright, super-hi-tech digital video camera. In turn, the young Amish children stared right back from the seat of their stark, hand-casted horse-drawn carriage. We stopped to admire their furniture and other crafts. I bought apple butter from a self-serving stand for $4.
The festival was kinda lame. Parades are simply walking (or in some cases, roller-skating) advertisements. I saw five Asians, two African Americans and almost 600 slightly overweight white folk. I had a pork chop on a stick. If you can't beat 'em, enjoy porkchop.
It started to get hot. Very hot and very humid. As I began melting into a puddle, my friend suggested we cool ourselves off with car a/c and head over to the Seed Savers farm. She's a serious gardener. The Seed Savers is an eco-friendly farm which grows flora endangered from the mass-producing farms that are overtaking the agricultural world. They sell the seeds so folks can keep the species alive and growing. I got very excited. I thought I would see alien-looking cabbage heads, frighteningly large killer tomatoes, weird, bug-eyed potatoes. But it all looked the same. I spent most of the time peeling myself off the pathway, waiting for the women's bathroom to become available so I could take mini-baths in the sink.
We stopped at Lanesboro, an artsy little town which from what I hear has a large lesbian population. They must stay home to fornicate on Saturdays as my gay-dar didn't pick up anything. We stopped at a wine shop offering free wine samples. Four small wine glasses later, I dropped off my two, newly-bought bottles of wine and we went searching for lunch.
When we got back to the cabin, we started pouring the whiskey to forget about the waves of heat overcoming us. It worked. By the time it got dark, we had gone through an entire bottle of cherry whiskey, a bottle of red wine, and the squeeze cheese. The humidity was long-forgotten.
The next morning, I brushed my teeth for a full ten minutes it seemed. Brushing your teeth outdoors is marvelous. Fill up a silo cup halfway, dip your toothbrush, squeeze the paste and start brushing. I stood outside, right next to the bird feeders. I saw golden finches and hummingbirds fight for food as I brushed. I walked through the woods, looking for fauna, still brushing away in just my shirt and underwear. Spit, rinse, then dump the remaining water on the foamy flouride to hide the evidence.
It was Sunday morning and I had survived the trip. I hadn't had a bowel movement in over three days (outhouse? not that brave), my skin had a grayish tinge to it, my hair hung in oily, braided clumps, but I was feeling great. We packed up, hit the road, and refueled at the Country Kitchen with enough grub to make the tables bow.
An hour and a half later, I was dropped off at my apartment. My boyfriend greeted me and my fishing hat with a big hug, laughing at my stinky, smiling self. A road trip, an uncle's cabin, and squeeze cheese can really do wonders to one's spirit.
. . .
I am going camping this weekend. This is not a household phrase I use often.
On my packing list (I'm fanatical about lists), I have listed bug spray, my current read, and big bottle of tequila.
As my boyfriend teasingly points out, technically, I am not going camping. I am going "cabinning." This is a very big thing in the Midwest. Everyone's uncle or brother-in-law has a cabin a couple hours away. Still, the cabin has neither electricity nor running water. It's the closest thing to camping I've come to in the past six years, the first being the time I slept in front of a train station in Rome after an all-night concert. I attempted another camping trip in the Badlands a few years back. The wind was so fierce that we spent most of the night straddling down the corners of his tent with our arms and legs to prevent it from whirling away Dorothy-in-Oz-style. We finally gave up, folded ourselves into the back of his Saturn, smoked a joint too dry and too old, and shared a cheap bottle of merlot until we dozed off. I have had neither the patience nor opportunity to camp since.
Until now. So I am going camping this weekend.
I'm going with a work friend, a very chatty one. It started out rather inconspicuously, her mentioning how fun it would be to drive down to stay at her uncle's cabin, me absent-mindedly nodding in agreement, trying to use the cutting board with one hand. Next thing you know, she has her uncle's permission, a set date, and a slew of buddies she's already asked. Sure, I'll go, already thinking of an excuse that "unfortunately arises" just mere days before the date. It never materialized. I was suddenly seized with the romantic notion of roughing it, imagining myself identifying poisonous berries from my North American field guide, careful not to stain my white linen safari J. Crew button-down. When reality returned, it was too late to cancel, and seeing as how all her other buddies bailed out, I would have felt guilty denying her the trip. The tequila better do it's magic.
It's currently 6:52 p.m. I have a load of laundry going and an hour before the liquor store closes.
. . .
I survived.
The first day was great. Everything was very "quaint" and "fresh." The second day was hell. I melted, solidified, then melted again. The third day had me kicking camping ass.
We begin early on Friday morning. Leaving Minneapolis around 10 a.m., we took our time winding down to her uncle’s cabin in lower Minnesota. It's not even in a town-proper; the closest little rural town is five miles northwest, Cherry Oak.
We took the scenic route, driving along the great Mississippi River on the Great River Road. Picturesque. We stopped in Wabasha, MN to check out The Anderson House, made famous by their option to rent a cat. They own somewhere between ten to fourteen cats. During the day, the cats doze in The Cat Room in little bunkbeds with their names painted on the front. As cats are generally illiterate, they weren't sleeping in their designated area. Luckily, there were photos identifying the felines. One in particular, Aloysuis, said he should only be rented out by the "serious cat-lover."
We stopped at a local grocery store to pick up our weekend rations. Loaf of bread, fig newtons, beef jerky and squeeze cheese, yum. Lots of bottled water and we were ready to get to the cabin. We stopped off at a county museum which was surprisingly chock-full of great historical gems, including the two white-haired ladies who welcomed us in.
We got there around 5 p.m. We drove past rows of rows of cornfields which grew field corn (corn grown especially to feed livestock, too hard for human consumption). So after rows and rows of field corn cornfields, we took a sharp left into what looked like more rows of corn. Beneath the overgrowth, we bumped along the skinny path into a small clearing with a small, squat brown cabin set in the middle. My friend jerked her thumb over to an even smaller squat, brown hut and said what will be forever etched into this camping memory, "outhouse."
The cabin was great. Small, dark, no fussy electrical outlets, just two small, functional couches, a wood-burning stove and a long, sturdy kitchen table that had obviously been polished until it gleamed. We poured ourselves some whiskey (in place of the tequila) and sat outside, reading and fighting off the bugs. I forgot the bug spray. I also fought off the urge to pee for nearly three hours.
It was hot and very, very muggy by the time it got dark, around 10. We plopped ourselves onto the couch and bitched about work until we fell asleep.
The next day, we drove through the small southern towns of Minnesota, heading for Decorah, Iowa for their big Swedish festival. We drove through Harmony, a small Minnesota town famous for its Amish community and ware. Alongside the roads are "Amish Byways," an extra strip of road for Amish buggies to clop along their own pace. I ogled them from afar through the lens of my silvery bright, super-hi-tech digital video camera. In turn, the young Amish children stared right back from the seat of their stark, hand-casted horse-drawn carriage. We stopped to admire their furniture and other crafts. I bought apple butter from a self-serving stand for $4.
The festival was kinda lame. Parades are simply walking (or in some cases, roller-skating) advertisements. I saw five Asians, two African Americans and almost 600 slightly overweight white folk. I had a pork chop on a stick. If you can't beat 'em, enjoy porkchop.
It started to get hot. Very hot and very humid. As I began melting into a puddle, my friend suggested we cool ourselves off with car a/c and head over to the Seed Savers farm. She's a serious gardener. The Seed Savers is an eco-friendly farm which grows flora endangered from the mass-producing farms that are overtaking the agricultural world. They sell the seeds so folks can keep the species alive and growing. I got very excited. I thought I would see alien-looking cabbage heads, frighteningly large killer tomatoes, weird, bug-eyed potatoes. But it all looked the same. I spent most of the time peeling myself off the pathway, waiting for the women's bathroom to become available so I could take mini-baths in the sink.
We stopped at Lanesboro, an artsy little town which from what I hear has a large lesbian population. They must stay home to fornicate on Saturdays as my gay-dar didn't pick up anything. We stopped at a wine shop offering free wine samples. Four small wine glasses later, I dropped off my two, newly-bought bottles of wine and we went searching for lunch.
When we got back to the cabin, we started pouring the whiskey to forget about the waves of heat overcoming us. It worked. By the time it got dark, we had gone through an entire bottle of cherry whiskey, a bottle of red wine, and the squeeze cheese. The humidity was long-forgotten.
The next morning, I brushed my teeth for a full ten minutes it seemed. Brushing your teeth outdoors is marvelous. Fill up a silo cup halfway, dip your toothbrush, squeeze the paste and start brushing. I stood outside, right next to the bird feeders. I saw golden finches and hummingbirds fight for food as I brushed. I walked through the woods, looking for fauna, still brushing away in just my shirt and underwear. Spit, rinse, then dump the remaining water on the foamy flouride to hide the evidence.
It was Sunday morning and I had survived the trip. I hadn't had a bowel movement in over three days (outhouse? not that brave), my skin had a grayish tinge to it, my hair hung in oily, braided clumps, but I was feeling great. We packed up, hit the road, and refueled at the Country Kitchen with enough grub to make the tables bow.
An hour and a half later, I was dropped off at my apartment. My boyfriend greeted me and my fishing hat with a big hug, laughing at my stinky, smiling self. A road trip, an uncle's cabin, and squeeze cheese can really do wonders to one's spirit.
