I decided to do a little volunteer work this year for the Boy Scouts of America. I was a proud Boy Scout, and I figured Yankee boys couldn’t be that different.
I have said it before, and it is worth repeating, that there are a number of things I gave up once I passed through puberty. The most important was gym class. A close second was “roughing it.” Life is too short to eat with sticks and have to carry toilet paper around with you in the woods. I am a man of the great indoors. Oh sure, I like going outside, being in the sunshine, running around, maybe even havin’ a good barbecue.
But I got over camping when I was a Boy Scout. As a Boy Scout, I marched through every Confederate Memorial park in Dixie. My Scout Master’s name was Mr. Whopper and, no lie here, he weighed neigh on 800 pounds. Okay, maybe 280 lbs. Big Whopper could march for days without rest. We boys thought he rolled along. Big Whopper made a big pot of grits every morning with raisins in them. We called them “Roach Grits á la Whopper.” He had a deep facination with cannonballs and Stuckies pecan logs, but then that’s a different story.
With Big Whopper, I ate every processed meat known to humankind. I tied knots. I pitched pup tents all over creation. I got Merit Badges. I ate baked beans with dirt in ’em. I hunted snipes and played “capture the flag.” I started campfires with sticks.
As a Boy Scout, I learned camping the right way. The Whopper way. When you go camping, you should be leaving civilization behind (except for the occassional pecan log). The idea of lugging portable stoves, refridgerators, generators, inflatable sofas, super dome tents with rotunda standing areas, dehydrated astro-ice cream, and Perrier defeats the purpose of leaving the city, according to the Whopper Way of the Wild.
Camping can be tough when all you’ve got is a tarp, some matches, string, a sleeping bag, and a canteen. Old Big Whopper would have had a stroke had he been on my most recent camping trip.
The Park Avenue Boy Scout Troupe (note the spelling of “troup”) were up bright and early with their suburban yuppie fathers that make a lot of money as bankers and salesmen. The fathers had braced themselves with Moccachinos and Café Lattés. We loaded up the Range Rovers and Jaguars and headed out to glory.
Since I was told we were going camping, I brought the usual: one pair of jeans; some undershorts; a toothbrush; an old shirt; some old shoes; my dog; my knife; and matches. Good to go. And because the Scout motto is “Be Prepared,” I also brought three Moon Pies and some Pepto-Bismol in case we decided to make Roach Grits á la Whopper.
Not only was I underdressed, but I was the only one there without all the latest in camping equipment. No British spot-utlilty vehicle for me. No fancy fishing rod. No gourmet dinner. No Brookstone accoutraments (notice how most Brookstone products are designed for people who think they are handy).
I soon found myself under the glow of an electric lamp, cooking fois gras, eating a salad with silverware, and discussing the Federal Reserve’s manipulation of interest rates with a buncha 12-year- olds. I left my Vienna Sausages in my bag–which in normal cases are perfect for camping because the encasement jelly is a great hand-cleaner for pre-Vienna-consumption cleaning.
Of course, boys are boys pretty much anywhere. And I’ll tell you the best thing about being an Alabamian in New York City–Wall Street daddies automatically think you’re a cross between Forest Gump, Rambo, and Lorne Green. So after I told them about how I once had to light the fire with wet sticks, find my way out of the darkness with only a sundial and a Barbara Streisand CD, eat bark for a week, and bite wild animals with my teeth to escape certain death, I was “the man’s man” of our camping party. Unfortunately, that caused many to ask me technical questions like “How do tie a square knot?”
But all in all, this was certainly low-impact camping. We had a pleasant time, ate salads, played Tetris on the laptops, looked at a few waterfalls, and then drove home. Not once did the Range Rover’s big tires leave pavement. The Moon Pies weren’t eaten. Nobody beat anyone else up. No snipes were shot. The tents didn’t leak. The marshmallows didn’t even fall off the sticks into the fire. There was a Wal-Mart within walking distance. It was like camping out at the Hampton Inn.
I’ve seen garden clubs in deeper woods. When I used to get home from a weekend with Big Whopper and Company, mama would say “Don’t tramp that dirt in my house! Take off your clothes in the garage! Your father will hose you down!” When we returned to Park Avenue from the non-wilderness adventure, we looked like we had been no further than the L. L. Bean. We were neat, clean, rested, and well fed. Even my dog looked groomed.
Andalusia, I’ve had dirtier Girl Scouts come sell me cookies.