2007/06/29 17:11
Five
I got a Snoopy fishing rod for my fifth birthday. It was a simplified version of the rods my dad and his family members had -- no component assembly, just a shorter rod with a reel fused on and a self-activating casting trigger that was easier for little hands to activate than the button. It was the best gift I'd ever received to that point. (Besides Poley.)
That weekend, we went camping in Santa Clara Canyon, home of the Moya family's favorite fishing spot. I couldn't contain my excitement to try out my new device -- before we'd even come to a complete stop at our campsite, I had my rod and was on a bridge separating two lakes. And before everybody was out of the car, I had caught a trout so big my grandfather had to run over and help me land it. It was my first fish, and the only one anyone in our family caught all weekend.
Thus began my love for camping and the outdoors.
My folks always sort of embraced what we now call "fluffy camping" -- the unit with solid walls, soft beds, and built-in stovetops and sinks that requires you to haul it on or behind a truck. It was still nice; even with our powerful toys and protective coatings, we were still out in nature.
But when I was a few years older and a Boy Scout, I learned about the harder ways. Setting up a tent, sleeping on a bedroll, cooking on coals, performing preventative maintenance against spiders and scorpions. It was a more real, more honest, and more satisfying form of camping, easily worth the enhanced difficulty. And when I discovered backpacking -- toting in everything we'd need to survive overnight, if not two days -- it was an even greater thrill. The greatest peace I've ever felt was the night I gained entry to the Order of the Arrow by hiking half a mile down a riverbed from my compatriots, setting up my own meager camp, and enjoying the quiet company of the spruces and the stars.
The backpacking waned once I quit the Scouts (two merit badges short of Eagle, but then I'd only been in it as long as I had for the trips outdoors). But my friends and I still ensured we'd find opportunities to camp, even if it was merely setting up a tent on the beach at the reservoir and subsisting on Pop-tarts and hot dogs. After borrowing my parents' gear enough times, Sed and I were gifted with a set of our own, which, sure, it was partly to stop us asking but also a recognition that we loved it.
Sadly, Florida is not the most conducive state for camping. If the alligators, panthers, raccoons, bears, snakes, and other frightening fauna don't get you, the mosquitoes and no-see-ums certainly will. But we've still got our gear, lying in wait to be used once we return home.
There's another goal, somewhat grander. It's my dream to one day hike the Appalachian Trail end to end. Certainly, this is a long way off, and longer now that I'm out of practice. But with resumed day hikes in the near future, and the occasional overnighter in the Jemez looming not far beyond, I know I can realize it.
That weekend, we went camping in Santa Clara Canyon, home of the Moya family's favorite fishing spot. I couldn't contain my excitement to try out my new device -- before we'd even come to a complete stop at our campsite, I had my rod and was on a bridge separating two lakes. And before everybody was out of the car, I had caught a trout so big my grandfather had to run over and help me land it. It was my first fish, and the only one anyone in our family caught all weekend.
Thus began my love for camping and the outdoors.
My folks always sort of embraced what we now call "fluffy camping" -- the unit with solid walls, soft beds, and built-in stovetops and sinks that requires you to haul it on or behind a truck. It was still nice; even with our powerful toys and protective coatings, we were still out in nature.
But when I was a few years older and a Boy Scout, I learned about the harder ways. Setting up a tent, sleeping on a bedroll, cooking on coals, performing preventative maintenance against spiders and scorpions. It was a more real, more honest, and more satisfying form of camping, easily worth the enhanced difficulty. And when I discovered backpacking -- toting in everything we'd need to survive overnight, if not two days -- it was an even greater thrill. The greatest peace I've ever felt was the night I gained entry to the Order of the Arrow by hiking half a mile down a riverbed from my compatriots, setting up my own meager camp, and enjoying the quiet company of the spruces and the stars.
The backpacking waned once I quit the Scouts (two merit badges short of Eagle, but then I'd only been in it as long as I had for the trips outdoors). But my friends and I still ensured we'd find opportunities to camp, even if it was merely setting up a tent on the beach at the reservoir and subsisting on Pop-tarts and hot dogs. After borrowing my parents' gear enough times, Sed and I were gifted with a set of our own, which, sure, it was partly to stop us asking but also a recognition that we loved it.
Sadly, Florida is not the most conducive state for camping. If the alligators, panthers, raccoons, bears, snakes, and other frightening fauna don't get you, the mosquitoes and no-see-ums certainly will. But we've still got our gear, lying in wait to be used once we return home.
There's another goal, somewhat grander. It's my dream to one day hike the Appalachian Trail end to end. Certainly, this is a long way off, and longer now that I'm out of practice. But with resumed day hikes in the near future, and the occasional overnighter in the Jemez looming not far beyond, I know I can realize it.
