The Love of Camping

Duh! This was my first thought as the love of camping surfaced as a topic for thelovesignblog.

My love of getting outside, of the gear, of the wilderness, and of nurturing of my companions.

And physically camping in all it’s permutations.

THE LOVE OF CAMPING;

Of course I’d had a five year old’s pancake cooked outside on a Coleman stove. Yummy wonder! And of course I’d been to visit my mother’s older sister’s two giant Tipis in Alberta, Canada; aunt Madelle was the family scourge for being so ”radical”. And the first structure on grandfather’s land was called “the camp”. Great great grandfather Purdy had set it up in 1890, and the shadow of the buildings survive to this day. But camping really started for me at age 12, in mid March, in 1976, in scout master Merritt Robinson’s drawing room. Here was a man who loved not just the camping itself but the art of camping. The gear of camping. And the social truth of the cost of camping. There at his engineer’s drawing table, an old school reticulated arm arrangement in the tradition of actually laying pencil to paper, were the seminal, drawn plans for a sleeping bag. And this was no ordinary sleeping bag. This was a “Robinson'“ bag. Famous all ‘round the county. The boys cut the foam with patterns and jigs. The moms cut the fabric and sewed it. The boys glued the foam with contact cement. Merritt Robinson had built a concept and a factory. A back yard factory running on mom and boy labor. A factory which produced a 3.9lb sleeping bag a boy of modest means could afford. A sleeping bag and pad in one which could keep a boy warm down to 20 degrees Fahrenheit, (a not uncommon night time temperature at 11,000 feet in the Sierra Nevada in the summer). Cost; $13. And this was but one feat of social, structural, and financial ingenuity on the part of Merritt Robinson.

I was electrified to be doing my boy scout camping merit badge sign off with Merritt Robinson himself. Little did he know he was already my hero. People teased Merritt Robinson behind his back all the time; “oh those were Robinson Miles don’t you know”, owing to his long legs ample stride, and legendary fitness. “That Robinson’s always working on some hair brained idea”; a father would say when Merritt was out of ear shot. He had invented a fiberglass bicycle. We did “65 milers”, according to the out of shape fathers I overheard talking about the upcoming classic “50 milers”. It was clear to this 12 going on 13 year old that they were jealous. On one of my specific trips to the Robinson “sleeping bag factory”, I’d had to use the bathroom. This request took me past the Robinson pool. In my 17 second circuit through the yard, I was astonished to see a curved, epoxy lined, water jetted slide which deposited the courageous and fortunate guest or family member 15 feet above the deep end! Here was a man who was serious about engineering, serious about a boy learning his camping skills, serious about fashioning an affordable sleeping bag for the less moneyed boys in our community, and also serious about having fun! I took none of the jibes towards Merritt Robinson seriously. I silently kept my vigil. Whoa to the scout who favored any leader. Troop 50 was a tough place for a tender foot. One time a scout named Bill Blake, who’s father had been a one time scout master, discovered that he could shoot the kerosene from the Coleman stove 10’s of yards with the familiar red pump removed. Bill’s flame thrower antics burned a number of scouts including myself before he was discovered, but that’s a story for another day. I kept my mouth shut, but I knew the truth; Merritt Robinson was the genuine article, a grade A terrific person through and through.

Later that summer of 1977, after proudly earning my camping merit badge directly from the true pro, Merritt Robinson himself, I went on my first “Sierra Trip”. After the horror of my third night out, (which later became a family legend as my best friend’s father, Ken Navas, had let me into his own Robinson bag, with him also in it, in the middle of the night, as mine had become soaked through due to my poor tube tent set up); I was getting over being homesick, and also getting over being not a little embarrassed at my faulty camp spot choice. (My father had said it was the need to work that kept him off the trip, but I later understood that dad just couldn’t handle being uncomfortable sleeping on the ground, and besides, beer was too heavy to carry.) It was late morning on a beloved “lay over day”, a non hiking day where a scout had the option to hang around in camp or climb the nearest peak with the group. It was a first trip for many on that 50 miler so nobody was going anywhere for the next 24 hours. Breakfast was over and cleaned up. I was foot loose. A little sad. A little shocked, but foot loose in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Perched above the evolution valley, mid sierra nevada, approached from the east side through the town of Lone Pine, CA, we had set up camp in an alien landscape of numerous, fallen, 25 foot diameter boulders strewn about; they appeared intentionally placed by so many giants. I popped around feeling light as a feather with my 42lb pack OFF. As I walked west of camp I spotted a verdant grassy alpine scene that I would later pursue throughout my life over decades of back packing and camping. Water from the nearby lake flowed slowly and at almost zero pitch through this tufted tundra. Fish could be seen darting through the multiple foot wide channels which wound through the few acres of achingly emerald grass. Multiple obscure wild flowers bloomed along the clear cold waterways. In a word, heaven; god’s garden. To use the word paradise would not be an exaggeration. And there in the distance was Merritt, as he insisted we call him, taking photographs. I lost all sense of proper boy/scout-master disdain and happily called out to him; “Mr. Robinson”! He said “hello” and when I reached him he gently asked me to call him Merritt, again, and without impatience. He said his hello enthusiastically, but without embarrassing volume. He offered to share his activity, but without boy-pride killing focus. I was completely smitten. I gladly joined him. He looked up from his camera, a Pentax Spotmatic. He pointed out Tilings Monkey Flower, and Feathery False Lily of the Valley. He spoke the Latin names of others; Scutellaria antirrhinoides, and Stephanomeria lactucina. He asked after my nights sleep. Here was a true gentleman; I was inspired far beyond what I was capable of communicating there at the tentative age of thirteen. I would have spent the entire day at his side if I hadn’t later spotted the other boys in the distance beginning their hazing body language. I probably failed to say a proper good bye or a proper thank you to this extraordinarily giving, socially gifted, and productive genuine leader and role model, as I darted off doubtlessly impolitely. I now imagine he likely grasped my dangerous social predicament. The younger boys were clandestinely going rock rolling invited by the older boys; an activity discouraged, illegal, and thrilling; I was ecstatic to be included and realized as I vandalized the wilderness, that I would have much rather spent my day with Merritt in thrall with all that camping held for this man.

And so the die of my love of camping was cast.

Fast forward 43 years; this moment in the mountains, probably no more than 25 minutes, has held my near daily attention. This moment set the bar for all trips that have followed. The capacity to be comfortable, well supplied, fed, and clean, while hundreds of miles from home and thousands of feet up, in an unforgiving wilderness carrying everything that I need on my back is the marker for me for what it means to camp. Here was Merritt sporting a recording device with glass lenses and a light sensitive material capable of rendering incredible detail to others, weeks later, leagues away from civilization. Fabulous!

Alas not everyone can take the time nor has the money, or the body, to get all the way in to the evolution valley’s high camp. As I now reflect on that time, and probe the value and meaning in my business activities, I realize that the flame ignited 43 years ago has not gone out. Quite the contrary; it is actually available to light my way as I car camp, share trips in my parents RV, and muse about doing a bit of back packing again after a 20 year hiatus. I am now developing a car camping cook box as a part of my commercial activities, replete with all of my love of being outside. Cook, nurture, clean; outside. Being outside regenerates us. It’s essence rebuilds us. We are of these places with the wild Tilings Monkey Flower. We are of the Milky Way which can be so very seen when up to pee in the dark of 4AM-summer in the mountains.

I have rediscovered my love of camping. Merritt’s influence in both thrift and preparedness is alive and well. Merritt has now passed, but I have finally been able to relate a piece of his story, which is also my story. There is nothing that rebuilds and grows us like time outside. On a recent trip with my beloved and her children we found ourselves playing cards by lantern light, singing big rock candy mountain, eating smores at the portable table, and laughing! Phones no where to be seen!

“It’s like pudding in here only there’s a fly”, said of M eating last nights left over evening camp cocoa.

Thank you

Sent from my iPhone

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