fire man and knot girl

“where is it?”
“i don’t know.”
“is it THAT?”
“uh, i dunno. maybe it’s THAT.”
“THAT? that’s crazy, no one could get up that way. maybe it’s around there.”
“there it is.”
“really? that seems so far away…”
“nah, there’s evidence of prior trudging, it’s gotta be it. I mean there’s nowhere else after this.”
“okee doke, here it will be then!”

they bumped the canoe against the edge of the little remote peninsula that served as their 24-hour human-free zone, first camping trip of the season. quite late this year, as the summer had averaged about 1400 degrees in the shade for about nine months, keeping them miserably trapped indoors.

“world’s comin to an end.”
“yup.”

the shoreline sloped sharply up, a soft and rusty red blanket of decaying pine needles, such a lovely complement to the forest green and the cobalt streaks of sky still visible between the layers of clouds. his feet were in the water first, and while she quested for rope to tie a painter from the canoe to the nearest fir, he slipped off magically with the little cooler, packed snugly with essential camping fare: meat, a six-pack of Six-Point, another called Pork Slap, meat, and some meat.

“so that should hold the…. oh.” (it was tradition for him to vanish immediately to protect the precious collection of meat-beer. and probably to pee.)

all their gear out of the boat and situated on the ground beside the water at the bottom of the little hill, she was quickly discovering it was not easy to flop a canoe over on an incline by oneself, and was grateful for his lollygagging return. together they proceeded somewhat less like a complete idiot and managed to arrive at a configuration he declared as ‘ya that’s enough’, and on they marched with bags and satchels to the sacred playground of chipmunks and people who need desperately to get away from people.

what about the thunderstorm? so far, the clouds were passing quickly, and enough of outerspace was frequently visible so that they were even less concerned about impending rain than they otherwise would have been (which was really not at all). for the most part in their years and years of camping extravaganzas, Rain had been kind to them and would generally only descend during the hours of sleep. so they’d come to count on remaining so lucky.

perhaps overly eager for ambience she launched her attention upon the firepit first. this never worked out, was counter to established camping canon, but now and then the sensory urgency was too great. gleeful yet somewhat spastic, she awkwardly negotiated the pit and timber, focussing too heavily on a semi-conscious legoland tinkertoy play-drive of the distant past that effectively blotted out any practical firelighting endeavor.

he came trudging up the hill with a sack of miscellany, saw her spazzing out by the haphazard pile of wood, and grumbled secretly at her failure to approach the project with logic and experience. he fought unsuccessfully the urge to overtake the situation and demonstrate his Early Man Mastery Over Fire (albeit with fancy swedish flint), and hence rescued all from babbling absurdity.

squatting beside him in the dirt (but then complaining of being old and standing up from time to time), she grinned and applauded like a circus pinhead as the sparks began flying fast and furious into the pile of dried leaves and bits of kleenex. and when the flame suddenly caught, their collective camping joy glowed as brightly, and was as enormous as the forest, the mountains, the sky even.

“that’s some level ten campin right there!” he bellowed, proud as all fuck of his fantastic work. “i have summoned fire with neither match nor lighter!” they were so overjoyed they could hardly speak. but they had plenty of wherewithal to gather beer.

pitching the tent was usually her racket, but she had gotten lost in some spazzy woodnymph mania and was bouncing about in the woods taking pictures of lichen and treebark and holes in the ground. so he was in the thick of it when she returned, was struggling with the rope in an attempt to suspend a spare tarp above the tent should the forecast torrent indeed occur, and the heavens split open like a paper bucket. she stood watching, fidgeting madly, not wanting to interfere, but alas he could not for the life of her tie the simplest utilitarian knot. he was at least as dopey with rope as she was fire-retarded.

“i got it i got it — “ she rushed forward, could clench her fingers no longer, could not another moment prevent them from springing open, and with a swoop took the line and virtually crocheted the tree with the long loose end, keeping it neatly out of the dirt. he stood back and observed with knitted brow, shrugging shoulder, shaking head. knots were not his thing.

“now remember, we have to pace ourselves,” he said as they cracked beer each number 3, sitting again in the canoe armed for a tipsy float about the pond. she smirked, and he laughed like a cartoon. (let us take note that all the beer was erradicated shortly after dinner.)

ah and dinner, oh how extraordinary, as always. fat slabs of marbly grass-fed steer, whose lovely life of ruminant strolling about upon green pastures was praised with every thought of its devouring. he, being firemaster, was also meatfixer. no camping trip of theirs suffered from lack of delicious, drippy meat. and this time, it was pretty much all they ate. oh sure, a mushroom, some broccolini. but meat was mostly. there being only one knife, she just picked up her steak in her mitt and ripped it apart with her teeth while meandering happily about the messy picnic table.

and then they and the last of the porkslaps plopped again into the canoe for another wobbly carnival ride, no tokens required, no endless kidscreaming lines.

“why didnt we bring more alcohol??”
“uh, cuz you said two sixes would be more than enough.”
“yeah but now that it’s all gone, it’s not.”

tra lala lala, no matter, camping itself was stupidly intoxicating. if nothing else, the lack of humanity alone made them giddy and overjoyed. but there on the little pine-shaded chipmunk-screeching semi-island there wasn’t nothing else, there was lots and lots and lots. the engulfing multi-sensory experience of fire. the ancient scent of wet meat roasting. paddling about on the little lake under a pinpricked moody sky. counting stars then watching them slip away. plotting their takeover for the apocalypse. pretending no one else existed — the only nothing else was anything and everything outside of camping.

who knows if they remember now precisely when they quit and crawled into the tent to pass into blissful mountain sleep.

meanwhile the campground sat quietly, delighted by their weird company but also a little relieved that they had finally shut up and passed out. it was time now for Nature to get drunk and carry on with its own peculiar conversations — and so the wind did come up, and so the sky did crack and split, and down did come the torrential rains. and the chipmunks went zipping about making insane alien noises, the bugs and birds and dirt and leaves and everyone not sleeping had a raucous booming light show party deep deep into the night.

no one else in the entire massive adirondack park before nor since has experienced such thunderous six-point pork-slap level-ten rain-soaked canoe camping, ever.

in the morning, after a bumbling search for the jar of freeze dried instant coffee, she triumphantly set up the wee camping teapot on its little stand and placed the stinky Esbit cube in the center. “ha! i have my own lighter this time!” it was one of those stupid miniature bic lighters that never seem to light and that instead practically eat through the frustrated user’s skin as failed after failed attempt to ignite it wears down patience as well as thumbflesh. …sighing he presented her with a proper lighter, but she had no skin left on her lightering thumb and thus the bringing of fire into their realm was again his primary, primal domain.

coffee ritual complete (“instant, we should bring instant,” he’d said, denying her earlier recommendation to bring the aeropress, “must make sacrifices for the camping”). it was late morning — breakdown and cleanup imminent in order to return to dull reality in time to catch the train back to the city. the half-blown tarp was collected up and comments were uttered regarding the impressive water-resistance of the tiny tent — although various items left overnight at the picnic table did not fare as well. she trotted determinedly down the hill to retrieve missing beer cans that the storm had swept away (“i refuse to be one of those people”) while he assessed the rope situation, convinced it was a hopeless disaster.

“look at this mess, it’s crazy” he reported, grasping and huffing and getting his own fingers all caught in mysterious loops. she sighed: “scully, you have seen me magically thwart your skepticism many times and yet still you do not believe…” “i leave it to you, mulder, good luck,” he said, and wandered off to pack up their gear.

she looked somewhat absentmindedly at the tree with its complex filigree of rope, and tugged gently at the loose end. the structure collapsed in a neat heap at the base of the treetrunk, leaving a convenient loop that retained the tension enough to hold the tarpline above the soggy ground. it was nice and clean when it was all gathered in a coil.

“i think i’ve reached level 12 camping,” he announced.

“how’s that?”

“i just found a spider in my beard.”

people should just be allowed to do what they do best.

.