Slippery Slope

Soil.
Dirt.
Earth.

It is musky and dank and fertile.
It's moist nutrients are essential to life... a building block of hungry civilizations.

Perhaps, like I, you have spent a night out by the campfire, with just the stars as a blanket, a rock as a pillow, and a bear bag for good measure. Perhaps you've dined on uncooked squirrel guts, played Giardia roulette with slow moving pasture filtered creek water, and stayed warm with only your wits. And perhaps - after a restless nights sleep - you've woken with dirt in your mouth and black widows in your ears.

It is a craft forged in the hot embers of discomfort and dysentery. Perfected by cowboys, adventurers, vikings, and the Irish. You can't see it from your air conditioned interstates. You can't find it on your hotel room cable T.V., at your in-laws, in the shower, or anywhere there is comfort.

It is camping. It is a way of life.

My eldest just turned nine.
Is she slipping away from us?
Let's go camping.

Should we take the car, with the tent, and the cooler, and the B suits? We own it all. We could go tomorrow. "But its a pain to get it all together... and I'd like a more comfy bed... and a refrigerator?"

What if I build a platform in the back of the van? We could sleep on it, and put the kids in the tent. What if we got a rooftop tent? What if we got a roof-top tent and I built a custom camp kitchen (chuck box/patrol box/food aplenty box)? What if we got an old military trailer that I build into a custom semi-off-road camping Swiss army knife to store our stuff. What if I put a tent on top of that army knife trailer. What if we named the trailer and christened her The Molly Hatchet?

Ok... that isn't going to work. Let's buy a cheap used pop-up.

But how many should it sleep? How big should it be? What if all the kids want to bring friends camping? What if the dog wants to bring a friend? What if we need to go to the potty? What if it really hot and we want air-conditioned camping? What if the house burns down and we need to live in the pop-up for several years? We're going to need a big one. A really nice once. With a shower (indoor and outdoor). With a hot water heater. And an awning. And a bike rack.

Ok... maybe we should just look at actual travel trailers.

Well if we're going to do that we should get an Airstream. They are after-all an actual piece of Americana. We could travel the byways of these United States in style with our aluminum clad vacation lozenge and have the comforts of home... and miniature home on wheels. But they are really expensive.

Oh... Hummmm.

What if we got an old one and refurbished it? We redid our house right? We can redo a micro Shangri-La can't we? We could gut it, and plumb it, and electrical it, and Ikea it, and get retro modern curtains. When it is all done we'd sit by the fire on our portable foldaway ceder patio, sipping martinis, listening to Benny Goodman bounce on the Hi-Fi. The kids would make friends and play jacks and hula-hoop. I'd manipulate the grill and the Mrs. would make milkshakes and it would be real swell.

And so I found myself this last weekend laying on the ground looking at the underside of a 40 year-old Airstream. It actually has pieces hanging off of it. The tires are old and cracking. The insides are original and rough. Kara found some 8 tracks. It was the slap in the face I needed.

And so we're left with dirt in the face tent camping - for now. And our children will grow up to be hearty, with memories of wet cold camp outs. Of sweaty mosquito bites, and dirty feet, and warmth in their hearts.