Into the woods

Last weekend I went camping with my dad. It was a much needed relief from the city; in fact I already wish I was going back again this weekend. When I mentioned the trip to people they said “oh, so you get along well with your dad.” To which I was compelled to shout “no!” But then I thought about it and I guess I that when we’re camping we do get along pretty well.

In the woods he’s in his element. He becomes able and sure and even jubilant, so different from the confused old curmudgeon he is when he tries to visit me in the city. He came to see me a few months ago and when I told him he couldn’t stay with me because I’d just moved in with new roommates I’d never met before, he insisted on parking his van outside the apartment and sleeping in it, coming upstairs to shower, shave, and make coffee in the morning. I was irate. It’s not like he’s poor, the man can afford a hotel just fine.

That’s when we decided that the next time we met up it should be in the woods. I took the Metro North out to Beacon and then we drove to a camping ground in the Catskill State Park. The campsite was called Beaverkill (kill meaning river, not death) and we did see one beaver, but no chipmunks. We also heard a turkey in the woods, but we didn’t see it. It rained a bit, but we did ok.

When it was too wet to start our camp fire my dad declared a beer party in the van. So, we sat in the back and poured cups from the two big jugs of Ale he’d brought from Massachusetts. After a while the rain cleared and we took our newpaper and soggy sticks and went to start a fire. I got one going fast and it was high impressive, but then all the newspapers and little sticks burnt away and it died. My dad started over, building one bit by bit, small but steady and eventually the big logs lit and we knew we were all set. We roasted wurst and I made smores and I got along well with my old dad.