I love camping (and also hate it)

Last July, when Meredith and I had known each other only a month, I asked her on the spur of the moment to go camping in Rocky Mountain National Park with me and Mitike.  I didn’t ask, “Do you camp?” or “Do you like camping?”, as I assumed everyone my age loved to crawl into a nylon tent and sleep in the wilderness.  This assumption had been formed by: 1) my sometime blindness to experiences outside my own; 2) the unusually high percentage of time I have spent in a tent in the past 20 years; and 3) the fact that I love camping.

Meredith, on the other hand, had not been camping for ten years.  Meredith doesn’t love camping.  She loves five-star hotels and white sheets, long hot showers, soft supportive mattresses, innovative restaurant food. 

But she was falling in love with me.  “Do you want to camp with us tonight?” I asked, and she said, “Sure!” as if she camped all the time.  She had to drive five hours round-trip to retrieve her dusty camping gear from her parents’ garage, then meet us at the Moraine Park Campground site, working hard to appear nonchalant.  I did wonder why she struggled a little to set up her tent, but otherwise, she fooled me completely. 

A year later, securely in love and engaged, Meredith confessed to me that she really doesn’t love camping that much.  This was just before we were to depart for a four-day camping trip in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area in Idaho. 

I responded gently:  It will be fun!  I’ll make it easy.  There are actually showers (true), flush toilets (true), the food will be great (sort of true) and the air mattress is incredibly comfortable (not really true, though it’s better than hard ground).

But I wanted to say:  HOW CAN YOU NOT LOVE CAMPING?

I didn’t grow up camping.  When I was a little girl, we headed west from Iowa to Colorado, where we spent a week in the Rockies in a cozy cabin with electricity and indoor plumbing, then drove back across Nebraska.  Once or twice, my family did camp in the sticky Iowa humidity in a nearby county park, and when I was in 9^th grade, my brave (and young, and also foolish) biology teacher Mr. French took our entire class camping for a night at Wildcat Den State Park.  But I didn’t actually begin to love camping until I was nineteen, working as a camp counselor in the Sangre de Cristos in Colorado.  It was then that I had a revelation:  for free, I could carry my house in a backpack, and live happily in the most pristine wilderness for days and days.  At age 24, I hiked the Colorado Trail from Durango to Copper Mountain, happily living in a tent for four weeks. 

For some reason, this was one of the first pieces of biographical information I chose to share with Meredith’s parents the first time I had dinner at their house.  Her dad’s eyes widened:  “So you didn’t shower for weeks?”  I quickly assured him that I shower regularly now.

But what is it about camping that still enamors me, all these years later?  It’s not easy.  It requires hours of organization and packing and set-up (and unpacking and re-organization).  It’s not always fun, especially when it’s raining, hailing, sleeting, or all of the above.  Even the most gourmet meals get cold, or get bits of dirt or pine needles in them.  Campground camping is a strange mix of solitude and too much company from RV owners, children on bikes, and your own tentmates.  Just one night of a lovely campfire perfumes your hair, skin and clothes for the rest of the camping trip.  After a circuit or two of the campground and a few hours reading a book in the hammock, it’s time to walk around the campground again.  The air mattress is not comfortable, and each morning, your back and neck ache, and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth and you get those little yellow crusties in the corners of your eyes.  At most camping sites, you either have to poop into an outhouse pit toilet filled with other people’s excrement or you have to dig a hole and poop like the black bears.  In the morning, making coffee requires warming up your fingers enough to flick on the lighter, which may or may not start the camping stove that may or not have enough fuel.  Add to all this a relatively new understanding of mine about camping:  family camping means no adult privacy ever, since an excited little girl in a purple sleeping bag is rolled up right beside you, with her brown eyes wide open.

Why do I still want to go camping?

Because I love staying up late under the brilliant stars, warming my hands at the campfire.  Because I love cooking on my little propane stove, and I love watching the light fade from the sky through the silhouettes of the pine trees.  Because I love having nothing at all to do in a day but hike and lounge in my hammock with a book.  Because I love being woken by birds and the light filtering through the nylon tent.  Because I love that I have everything I need right there in the wilderness:  kitchen and bedroom and living room.  Because I love making tinfoil dinners and tasting hot coffee on cold mornings and roasting marshmallows late at night.  Because I love the moment my feet get warm in my sleeping bag.  Because I love my daughter’s sense of freedom when we’re camping:  the way she plays in the woods, and feels important that it’s her job to fill the water bottles at the pump.  Because I love the simplicity of camping:  that our devices go dead after a day, that no one can call or text or email us, that we have to mull over a question together instead of look it up quickly on Google, that to-do lists and expectations and obligations cease to matter.  Because I love the quality of conversation that happens between people camping together, when there is time and space to reflect and discuss.  Because, even though a little girl and a dog are sleeping nearby, cuddling with my fiancé in a tent beneath layers of blankets and sleeping bags is sweet, and cold nights are a lovely excuse to cuddle closer.

As I set up our tent in the beautiful woods in the Sawtooths, and Meredith laid out the lunch food on the picnic table, I called over to her, “Isn’t this great?”  I so dearly wanted her to love camping the way I love it that I had hidden my long list of reasons I don’t like it.  She smiled at me across the campsite, a Wheat Thin layered with peppered salami and fresh mozzarella cheese in one hand.  “Yes,” she said, gazing up at our canopy of pine trees, and then over at our tent, “this is a beautiful place.”

One of the many reasons I love Meredith is that she’s open to adventure, even if it’s not what she would have chosen to do on her own.  We finished setting up the camp and then walked down the hill to the white-sand shore of Redfish Lake, where the Sawtooth Mountains rose in an impressive backdrop to the glittering blue water.  Mitike and our dog splashed around, and we lounged on the beach, our backs against an enormous fallen tree.  Later, after a dinner of hot dogs and steamed French green beans, we built a roaring fire and watched the stars emerge.  And still later, we crawled into our bed in the tent, cuddling close.  I closed my eyes and thought about the Milky Way above us, and I thought about how much I love camping.

And then, in the middle of the night, when the temperature had dropped to 35 degrees and my feet and nose were freezing, when my lower back hurt and Mitike was whimpering, “I’m cold, Mommy!” and the dog had curled himself into the smallest ball possible, I whispered into Meredith’s ear, “I actually hate camping, you know.” She burst out laughing, which sounded odd through her chattering teeth.  “You do?”  “Yes.  Let’s get a hotel room, with white sheets and a hot shower and room service.”  Instead, we pulled the blankets and sleeping bags closer around us, draped a sweater over the dog, and cinched TK’s sleeping bag around her head.    

Four days later, when we were actually enjoying hot showers and clean white sheets in a Provo, Utah, La Quinta Hotel, I admitted it again:  “I really don’t know if I love camping.”  Meredith grinned at me.  She’d just listed everything she’d loved about our trip to Idaho:  a hike on a dramatic ridge above the lake, kayaking, campfires, star-gazing, dinner on the beach, a lazy morning with scrambled eggs and coffee, our tree silhouette canopy, the ease of our togetherness and of being unplugged for awhile.  She pulled me into a full hug.  “I love you, you know.  And next time we go to Redfish Lake, we could stay in one of those cute cabins.”

We could, of course.  Almost everything I love about camping could be achieved through the kind of cabin experience I had in my childhood, and everything I dislike would be fixed by a comfortable bed, a flush toilet, a hot shower, and a little heat within four walls.  But.

What if the point of camping is to more fully appreciate a hot shower?  What if the point is to understand how lucky we are to have soft beds and clean sheets, restaurant food, and sweet-smelling hair?  (Meredith says she already appreciated these things). 

What if the point is to be a little uncomfortable, to shake ourselves out of the expected comfort of daily modern life?

Several days after our camping adventure in Idaho, Meredith showed me a little YouTube video advertisement for the Australian-made “Teardrop” camper.  I watched the video three times on my own.  In that dear little tow-along camper, one has a comfortable king-sized bed and a full kitchen. 

“If I had that, I’d never sleep in a tent again,” I said, in awe, and then clapped my hands over my mouth.  I had just betrayed tent-camping!  But maybe – just maybe – I’ve put in enough time on the ground.  Maybe it’s time to transition to something a little more comfortable in the wilderness. 

Maybe. 

Ask me next summer, when enough time has elapsed, and I’ll tell you I can’t wait to unroll the tent and shake out the sleeping bags.  I love camping, I’ll tell you.  It’s one of my favorite things to do.

Longs Peak essay in the Flatirons Literary Review

The Flatirons Literary Review published my Longs Peak essay (and my dad's beautiful photo of Longs from Chasm Lake) today.  Here's a link.  Feel free to leave a comment on the site -- they're eager to gain readers!

From "A Woman on Longs Peak"

An excerpt from a much longer essay I submitted to the Flatirons Literary Review today.  I'll post a link to the whole essay if they publish it.  

. . .The sky begins to lighten for an hour before we see the sun.  Now I can see the path switch-backing up through the tundra, the hump of Storm Peak to the right, the craggy triangle of Mount Lady Washington to the left.  Behind us, layers of purple peaks give way to the endless plains, a hazy horizon and clouds just beginning to pink.  The trail rises past the tranquil Peacock Pool and then:  Longs Peak.  I’ve been worrying about whether or not to write the name with its apostrophe, but now I see the mountain and know names matter not at all.  This mountain -- the cut granite of the diamond face, the rock formation we call the Beaver, the deceptively tranquil snowfield we call the Dove – has been uplifted, eroded, scoured by wind and weather for millions of years.  Any name a human gives it is a passing whisper.  I stand still in the trail and gaze up at the mountain.  Words are dust here.

The sun rises.  At this elevation, it is a sudden event, the world progressively lighter until There! the sun appears fuscia between two eastern peaks, and then rises with surprising speed, turning golden, warming the world.  Normally, I’d watch, but I only have eyes for Longs Peak.  The diamond face catches fire, turns golden.  Hardy columbine and yellow arnica nod in the wind, and wisps of gilded cloud move across the rounded top of the peak.  We hike onward, our eyes on the great rounded summit.  It is not holy, because holy is what people make things.  It just is, and we are here, and I am grateful.  Grateful even though I cannot feel my fingers in my thick gloves, even though my four layers of fleece and my windbreaker do not keep out the chill wind, even though we have hiked only half of our journey to the summit.

*

Many sources, including the popular book Longs Peak:  a Rocky Mountain Chronicle, by Stephen Trimble, claim that a woman named Anna Dickinson was the first to summit Longs when she stepped onto the summit in mid-September of 1873.  However, although Dickinson was only the third woman to successfully climb the peak (the Boulder County News reported a Miss Bartlett summited a few weeks after Addie Alexander), she was the most famous.  In 1873, the 31-year-old Dickinson was a well-known orator who had been an instrumental abolitionist and now was actively involved in the women’s movement.  She was also what we would call today a lesbian.  Through her study of their correspondence, historian Lillian Faderman documents Dickinson’s close, intimate relationship with Susan B. Anthony, as well as with other women.  This isn’t relevant to Dickinson’s ascent up Longs except that it is nearly always omitted from biographical accounts of her.  One thinks about many things in the long ascent of Longs.  It’s possible Dickinson was thinking about Anthony’s latest letter, her expressed wish to “snuggle. . .closer than ever,” her cheeky assertion that her bed was “big enough and good enough to take” Anna in (Faderman 26). 

Dickinson had already summited Pikes Peak, Mount Lincoln, Grays Peak, and Mount Elbert.  She’d ridden up these other 14ers on horseback or burro, and she’d rolled boulders from the top of Elbert just to delight in watching them fall.  She was a passionate mountain climber who had climbed New Hampshire’s Mount Washington over twenty-eight times.  Longs Peak would be another peak to add to her list, and, since she was with the famous Hayden survey party, she hoped the climb would help her career, which was floundering.

In The Magnificent Mountain Women: Adventures in the Colorado Rockies, Janet Robertson describes the morning of Dickinson’s ascent:  the party had a large breakfast at 4 a.m. on September 13 at their campsite in what is now known as Jim’s Grove, then rode up toward the Boulderfield.  To cries of scandal later when it was reported in the Boulder County News, Dickinson wore trousers.  Even more scandalous, she split the trousers on her descent.

*

I’ve climbed this mountain before.  When I was 14, my dad took me to the summit on a cloudless July day.  I remember my lungs ached, and that I didn’t want him to know I was tired.  I wore cut-off jean shorts, a red cotton sweatshirt, pink and turquoise hiking boots.  It was 1991.  We tried again four years later, when I was 18, but sleet that coated the rocks in the Boulderfield with ice turned us back.  Today, I’m thirty-seven, hiking the mountain with two of my cousins, both of whom first summited as teenagers, too.  It was the required rite of passage in our family.

Just below the Keyhole, the eponymous gap in the rock ridge at the top of the Boulderfield, the wind increases, the temperature drops.  Ominous grey clouds speed through the Keyhole and swirl across the Diamond face, then obscure it, then obscure everything.  My fingers ache because I’ve ripped open a package of hand-warmers and inserted them into my gloves, and my face is numb.  My cousin Anthony is wearing shorts, and my cousin Johanna has wrapped herself in all the clothes she’s brought.  The three of us look at each other.  We’ve all summited before, but we’ve also all turned back before.  This mountain creates its own weather, and it’s serious.  Dangerous.  When Anthony, who is 6’5”, climbs to the Keyhole to peer over the other side, the wind unbalances him.

We huddle in the stone hut just below the Keyhole.  The hut is a memorial to the climber Agnes Vaille, who died after a successful winter ascent of the East Face went awry in January 1925.  Ten hikers are already crammed into the tiny hut.  One of them is a shivering little boy of nine.  I close my eyes and think of the black and white photo I’ve seen of Agnes Vaille.  She wears a long, dark, loose dress, and she’s tied up her hair.  She’s leaning back with one hand on a boulder, the other on her lap.  She wears wire spectacles, but she looks young, and her neck is slender and lovely.  I love the way she looks not at the camera but into the distance, a half-smile on her lips.  She was in the Red Cross in France in WWI. 

When the rescue party found Vaille after her climbing partner, Walter Kiener, stumbled down the mountain for help, the extreme conditions – temperatures they recorded at 50 degrees below zero, 100 mile-per-hour winds – she had already died of fatigue and hypothermia.  One of the rescue party members also died.  Kiener lost fingers and toes to frostbite. 

Today, it is August 6.  The temperature outside is probably forty degrees, but inside the hut, we are all waiting for the mountain, knowing enough to respect its warnings.  It could clear, a man in bright orange yells from his perch at the Keyhole.  He waves a cellphone.  I got a signal for a moment, and the radar showed the front is moving through!  But cloud has obscured the Boulderfield below us, and we’re cold.  The nine-year-old’s teeth are chattering.  With every gust of wind, the windows in the tiny hut built for Agnes Vaille rattle.

*

Janet Robertson writes of Anna Dickinson in her later life:  “Although she had many suitors, she spurned them all and chose to remain single.”  Lillian Faderman documents the kind of single life Dickinson lived, in letters like this one she wrote to Susan B. Anthony:  “[I long] to hold your hand in mine, to hear your voice, in a word, I want you – I can’t have you?  Well, I will at least put down a little fragment of my foolish self and send it to look up at you” (26).

Whether her successful ascent of Longs on September 13, 1873, mattered to Dickinson is difficult to know.  In the autobiography she wrote several years later, she barely mentioned the ascent, since she had more to say about the part she’d played in American politics and in the social movements of her time.  Longs Peak was one more mountain she had climbed.  Her companions on Longs probably named Mount Lady Washington in her honor, giving her that nickname because of her love for the New Hampshire peak, but it’s difficult to discern whether Longs meant something special to Dickinson in the way it did to others.

Nine years later, in 1882, Dickinson performed as Hamlet on Broadway.  This is unrelated to her ascent of Longs Peak, except for the courage it took to do both.  And except that she was ridiculed for wearing trousers in both.   In 1891, her sister Susan had her incarcerated at the Danville State Hospital for the Insane.  Some sources say she was paranoid, some say she was alcoholic, some say she was wrongly accused.  When she emerged, she sued for her reputation and won, but then lived the last forty years of her life in quiet obscurity, unknown. 

*

I re-name the triangular Mt. Lady Washington Anna Peak.  In the Agnes Vaille Hut, Johanna shivers and says we need to make a decision, now.  Up or down.  I run up to the Keyhole edge and find clearing clouds.  The wind has lessened.  I suggest we go on, and so we do.

The route from the Keyhole to the summit of Longs is marked by bright yellow painted circles enclosed with red, the bullseyes hikers call the Fried Egg Trail.  It’s more perilous than I remember from twenty-three years ago, but the wind has calmed to a breeze and the sun emerges sometimes from the clouds to warm us.  The steep, slick granite western side of the great mountain drops 2,000 feet to turquoise alpine lakes.  On the other side of the deep canyon, jagged peaks snag the clouds as far west as I can see.  Two years ago, I hiked to the top of the gentle green Mount Audubon, just across the canyon, and I shuddered to see the vertiginous sides of Longs Peak.  I swore I never needed to climb it again, but here I am.

The fried eggs lead us along narrow ledges.  If we slipped, we’d die.  In June this summer, a Fort Collins man fell to his death from the Trough.  Last August, a Missouri man died falling from the Narrows.  The risk is real. The climbers with their ropes and helmets might be safer. . .