Camping, the Old Fashion Way

I am saddened when I go on the mountain and see so many people spending the night in a camp trailer or fifth wheel. Whatever happened to the olden days when one slept in a tent, or even better, under the stars? I understand that a trailer has more conveniences such as a toilet, kitchen sink, table, generator, color television, soft bed. Most people don't even build a fire anymore. They just cook on a propane stove. Why not just stay home in the first place? In a camp trailer, you are oblivious to the sound, smell, and touch of the outdoor senses.

Some of my fondest memories come from camping beneath the stars. While in high school, the night before the archery hunt, my friend and I drove in his old black pickup truck to the top of Blue Mountain near the skyline trail at about 10,000 feet in elevation. We had no tent, nor any camp trailer, but instead, we rolled out sleeping bags into the bed of his truck and watched the innumerable stars that painted the sky. It was the most stars I had ever seen in my life. I don't know if it was because we were so high in elevation, or because we were so far away from any other dimming source, but there were millions upon millions. No clouds obstructed our view. Swarms of illuminated pin holes from east to west and north to south, not only above us, but also below us as we sat parked high upon a mountain slope. Flanking our sides were silhouettes of the coniferous forest, its pungent scent still fresh in the crisp air.

Nighttime is filled with many sounds. That of a cricket or cicada can be very nostalgic. The quivering of aspen leaves when the breeze picks up or the rumbling water of a gurgling stream are very soothing. Popping and crackling of the final embers before they die out always rouse me from my sleep to glance at the fire pit, but I always return to close my eyes, relishing the moment that is all mine at the moment.

My favorite sounds, however, come from animals who roam the outskirts of our campsite. This is always a bonus to any nighttime experience. A pack of coyotes howling on the hillside are enough to keep one awake, hoping that they will not come down and ransack the camp.

During the rut, when I go on the mountain to get pictures of elk, I particularly enjoy sleeping in the back of my truck and listening to the bugles that come during the night. Usually, two bulls will be roaring back and forth as they wander through the trees. I get excited when one of them gets relatively close to the truck, probably completely oblivious to my existence. I pop my head up, squint through the darkness, scan for anything that could be an elk, usually not see anything, but still be happy that one is so close.

I remember one night as a youngster, my brother and I camped out at Westwater. The creek is only a couple feet wide.  Walt and I created an artificial island in one section so that the stream forked right around our fire and little camping area, and then coalesced back into one body of water. It was in this place that we slept under the stars, the stream roiling just feet away from our ears, the embers of the fire burning down, and leaves on the cottonwood trees flapping lightly. Something stirred that caused me to sit upright in my sleeping bag. There, about a sticks-throw away, in the willows were two red eyes. They glared at me as I stared at them. I listened intently for any movement, but heard none, and soon the glowing oculi faded into the night. ♠