The Roaringgrrl Goes Camping

In my last column, I made a statement about the intellectual work academics engage in during our summers away from the classroom. But all work and no play make Jane a dull girl, so I’ve been trying to have a little fun this summer.

I joined the Southwest Montana Arts Council to help with their Lunch in the Park series.

I joined Donna’s Kicking Country Cloggers, and, God willing, won’t embarrass anyone but myself with my novice clogging abilities.

I joined the YMCA and am spinning my way to buns of steel.

But really, I feel the best way to get to know Montana is to get to know the land on which I’m living, so I went camping.

Upon reading that last sentence,people who know me just fell on the floor and are currently doubled-up with side-splitting laughter.

A few years ago, I went for a hike with my dad. I heard water running and asked if there were a stream or creek nearby. He said, “No,” and I realized that the sound was coming from the water sloshing around in my Aquafina bottle in my backpack.

Clearly, I am not what anyone would mistake for an outdoor girl. I own far too many L’Oreal and Paul Mitchell products to be anything but a city girl.

So when my friend came to town for a visit and wanted to camp in and around Yellowstone, I said, “Sure. Can I bring my hair dryer?”

After she stopped laughing at what I considered to be a serious question, she asked, “Do you have a sleeping bag?” “Yes,” I said, “And it’s good until thirty below zero, I think.” My friend, who cut her wilderness teeth in Alaska, gave me a sideways glance but said nothing.

We hit the road with her dog Odys and headed south of Bozeman for SpireRock. We made camp next to a bubbling brook under a picturesque pine tree.

“Where’s the ladies’ room?” I asked. She handed me a roll of toilet paper and pointed me toward an outhouse with, what I have since learned, was a vaulted toilet (which I have also since learned has absolutely nothing to do with pole vaulting, thankfully).

Now might be a good time to mention that I have never enjoyed doing my business outdoors due to my fear of what my friend Richard called the Appalachian Butt Snake. Yes, I know that the likelihood of any animal being interested in that area of my anatomy is slim, but women are a little more exposed in that area than men when it comes to relieving themselves outdoors.

Needless to say, I was a little apprehensive about the vaulted toilet especially when I realized that at night, such a venture would include careful balance of a flashlight, so I limited my water intake and kept my legs crossed.

The plan was for me to sleep in the back of my friend’s station wagon while she slept in her one-person tent with her dog. However, after only an hour of sleep, Odys came to join me in the car as he was (A) too cold to sleep outside, (mad at his mom for disciplining him after chewing up his new toy, and (C) aware that I am a big weenie who is afraid to sleep by herself outside.

It was a bad night’s sleep. Odys, all fifty pounds of him, kept my legs pinioned in a mummy-like position, prohibiting any movement which I desperately needed because of my desire to getaway from his prodigious flatulence (I knew that cottage cheese in his food dish was a mistake!)

The following nights, I slept in the tent and Odys slept with his mom in the car. The tent was pretty neat with all kinds of zippers and pockets, and my friend had an egg-crate topper, so I wouldn’t have to sleep with a rock in my back, but I wasn’t prepared for the cold.

It was then I remembered that it wasn’t my sleeping bag that was good to thirty below zero. It was my car’s antifreeze.Too bad I couldn’t crawl into my car’s engine. It would have been significantly warmer.

Those nights in the tent I wore long underwear, two pairs of socks, two hats (one fleece, one wool), and mittens. I slept in mittens! I now have a newfound respect for Lewis and Clark. How did they do it? How did they ever get a comfortable night’s sleep? How did they avoid the neck cricks that can only be explained by sleeping in the shape of a question mark in order to stay warm?

The answer to those questions is fire. On our first night out, my friend asked, “How are you at making a fire?” Sitting in my camp chair with a book on my lap I replied, “What about me screams good-at-making-fires?”

But I am nothing if not adventurous, so I tried to build a fire. I failed.

I tried to light my friend’s white fuel stove. I lit the ground on fire.

I tried to build a fire on the second night. The fire flamed mightily for about ten minutes and then lamentably died.

By then, building a fire had become my metaphorical white whale. Like Captain Ahab obsessively looking for Moby Dick, I began to plot the ways in which I would successfully bring fire to our campground.

Then, I remembered as a child balling up newspaper for my dad while he piled wood into our fireplace, so I grabbed every piece of paper in sight, my Newsweek, the Cheese-It box, the map of Yellowstone, and went to work.

My fire pit was a thing of beauty. Upright logs encircled my paper wads in a tight hug, and as I lit a match, I was almost sorry to watch it all go up in flames. But flame up it did and this time for more than two hours.

Finally, the white whale was mine, and I knew my dad would be proud.

As I write this on Father’s Day, I’d like to thank all the fathers out there who teach their daughters something every day. Even when you’re not sure we’re listening, we are.