He’s not grown yet; he just thinks he is. Mother says, “I don’t know, he’s still mighty young.” But Daddy replies, “He’s old enough.”
And so the camping trip is set. It’s not one limited to the confines of the backyard as in the past nor one made in the company of responsible adults. Rather, this time, he and a buddy, all alone, will bed down on the creek bank away from all civilization in general and parents in particular.
For days, he plans, shops and packs for the overnight stay out of town. Thank goodness, he’s not backpacking. There’s no way that two youngsters alone could manage ice chest, tent , bedrolls, fishing gear and a watermelon without some help and transportation.
Upon arrival at the chosen site, the pals quickly set up the two-man tent on a grassy knoll overlooking a salt water creek etched in marsh grass. Surveying their newly erected home for the night, they brush hands against jeans, satisfied it’s there to stay.
“They ought to make three-man tents to sleep two, “ observes the friend as he tries to spread two sleeping bags on the floor of the tent.
In a cleared area, they stack paper, twigs, logs and dried palm fronds, a combustible pile, instant campfire. For a final touch, they ring it in broken rock.
The sun’s low, but the tide rises high and the fish refuse to bite. After an hour or so casting, they lay down their rods, set fire to the wood and ready hot dogs and marshmallows for roasting. They dine by the light of a candle that Sis made in Girl Scouts but never used.
They throw another log into the blaze, open another bottle of pop and tell tales of their “younger days”…way back when the barking of neighborhood dog could scare them as they bedded down in the backyard. The crickets and frogs accentuate their yarns and interrupt the darkened silence encompassing them. They throw another log on the blaze…
Free agents, they are, for an entire night. There’s no one around to tell them to pick up their things, brush their teeth, go to bed, hold down the noise, douse the fire...
Finally, weary from excitement, they crawl into their bedrolls, but find the tent too hot for easy sleeping. Uncomfortable, they drag the bedding from the tent and stretch out under the stars. Flat on their backs, they count the eight falling stars rushing across the immense heavens way up there. And once again, little boys ponder great questions which have puzzled mankind for ages. Answers don’t come easy and the bugs bite.
Reluctantly, they return to the tent only to find an army of fiddler crabs have moved in. Shooing the pesky creatures away, they recapture their stronghold and settle down once more. Slowly, the tent collapses on top of them.
With the first light of day, they’re up, baiting hooks, testing lines. A high morning tide greets them - no fish for breakfast today. And a drizzling rain soaks them through.
Back home, after enthusiastically recounting the events of his first real camp-out, he crawls into bed and sleeps away the rest of the day.
1976
That sounds very similar to a camping trip I took out of the YMCA Camp at Bachman Lake in Dallas back in the 1950s. We were venturing out from the organized camp into the river bottoms, with tents and sleeping bags....the youngest of us to be sent out searching for snipes. Our fiddler crabs were mosquitoes, though we did do the hot dog and marshmallow dinner. Ah, the youthful desire to be out on our own, free of parents. That familiar house and bed sure looked good when I got home, hot and tired and lonely for my folks.
Frank Goodloe