Camping is the only way — if you keep a sense of humour

Press, 28 December 1977, Page 14

Camping is the only way — if you keep a sense of humour

To me, holidays mean camping; and camping is within the reach of most of us. Our first pup tent cost less than $5O, but I made sure it was waterproof and a full eight feet long.

If you have the money, you can have a luxury tent with separate rooms and opening windows. Or if you haven’t, you can sleep in the open between two sheets of plastic. We use plastic as a

groundsheet with a foot extra all round to be turned up and supported by rocks or sticks inside the tent walls. Neglect to do this and rain comes into the tent. Careful choice of campsite is important — not under trees that will be felled by the inevitable storm; nor on river flats that will be flooded over. I have a penchant for selecting the temporarily dried-up watercourse — it frequently has that little hollow needed for one’s hips if one has neither stretcher nor lilo — and I wake to find myself awash in the dark. I remember such a mispitching in the overflow route of an extended stagnant marsh unobtrusively sited on a hillside above. Inevitably, I woke one day to find myself afloat. Into shorts, boots, and parka, and I began to hack a major watercourse round our tents with a borrowed pickaxe. Pitying a woman excavating in the pouring rain, the males from the nearest caravans came out to help. The Coaster was suitably attired in parka and boots; the other, from the city, wore a conventional city raincoat and no hat. The rain pelted down the gap between his neck and his coat, but principle forced him to stay until the channel was completed. He made me feel terribly incompetent.

I have cooked over an open fire, but you have to be responsible about restricting it to a confined area well away from everything inflammable. And you must put it out scrupulously. You have problems keeping your pots upright and maintaining an adequate but not excessive heat. And you will not be able to handle the pots. But you can manage . . . until the rain starts in earnest. At least you still have a choice: you can be dry and hungry and bad-tem-pered, or you can be wet,

fed, frustrated, and excessively bad-tempered. Then the available wood becomes sodden and you cannot even boil up a brew. It really pays to have Guides or Scouts in the party, for they will have gathered a lot of wood and stacked it under cover. Well, I have cooked over an open fire, but the next time I bought a tworing camp stove and a stout fuel container. The next year I had a second container for the inevitable time when the first ran out and the sole source of supply for miles was closed. Cleanliness need be no problem; plenty of swimming helps. Usually preferring to camp in the open spaces, I go to the nearest motor camp every few days, find the caretaker, and ask permission to use his washing machine and shower — paying, of course. We then wash ourselves and our clothes in comfort and hot water. But a bath in a lake at night has a spiritual romance; one feels in harmony with the whole world. On such a night my “daughter” placed her arm around my waist under water. Dreamily, I turned to smile at her — and, horrified, saw her swimming yards away. That friendly caress was the embrace of an eel and I was out of that waterfaster than light could travel. No longer can I forget to take raincoats, boots, an axe, a tin opener, a sharp knife, some extra containers for the children’s activities, sunbum preventatives and cures, insect repellants and antihistamine for when we do get bitten, wet-day-in-side-a-tent activities, and a spare car key. Carelessness has caused too much discomfort in the past; and now I keep lists. Christmas was enjoyable, but I am looking forward to January — hot sun, fresh air, old acquaintances, long days, and a certain West Coast lake.

By

SUE TAYLOR