Camp Morning

This is another in the “Sunday Story” series.  No politics here, just some stories about life, camping, and “Camp Mornings”.  

Dogs

It all starts with the dogs, of course.  I spent a lot of this spring getting up early, travelling to a track meets in New Concord or Dayton or Logan or somewhere.  I got our five dogs in a cycle:  get up by six, the breakfast rituals (meds with carrots and cheese, then breakfast, then the post-breakfast appetizers of more carrots and finally a treat) done by six forty-five.  I’d need to be on the road by seven-thirty or so.  

But now, it doesn’t matter that it’s summertime and we could all sleep until ten.  The exact time is 6:08, that’s when Louisiana lets me know that he’s ready; to go out, to get meds, to eat breakfast, to be warmed up with a big rub and a kiss or two.  6:08, not 6:10 or 6:05:  it’s time to get up – “OWW-ROO!!”.

And after all of the rituals, in the end I’m way too awake to go back to sleep. So in the midst of all of that, I perform the most important act of my day – I make the first pot of coffee.  So now, I’m up.  But today, it was all worth it.  Because when I let them outside for the third time, I went out with them.  And I got to experience a “Camp Morning”.

Scouts

I grew up in the Boy Scouts.  When I first started at eleven years old, my troop went on a campout every month, rain, shine or sub-zero temperatures.  And every morning on the camping trip, I’d wake up, snug in a sleeping bag, to the sound of the “old men” and older Scouts around the campfire, talking quietly about whatever came to their attention that morning.  I could never figure it out back then; why were those guys up so early? 

So like all the other Tenderfoot Scouts, I’d straggle out from our canvas tent, sleep in my eyes, boots untied, and wander off to the woods or the “Kybo” (the outhouse, often with multiple seats, “two-holers” or “four-holers”, just like in ancient Rome).  I knew as soon as I returned my “tasks” would begin:  find firewood, police the campground, help with breakfast, pack up my gear.  The only exception was on the really cold winter camps, then I was allowed to “hang-out” by the fire for a bit, turning slowing like a roasting pig to make sure I re-heated evenly from the bitter cold night.

Woodland Trails

And then there was summer camp, two weeks at a Scout Camp in Western Ohio called “Woodland Trails”. (The Scouts sold Woodland Trails just last year to the Ohio Department of Natural Resources.  Makes me want to take the Jeep over to Gasper-Somers Road, where I learned to drive a stick-shift).  They let us set up in what looked like Civil War vintage “wall tents”, with painted beer boxes under our cots to stow gear.  We didn’t need too much:  a couple of pairs of Scout shorts, some Troop T-shirts, socks and underwear.  And, of course, a “full dress” Scout uniform for special occasions.  

At eleven years-old, a couple of T-shirts could last the whole week.  And if they got too bad, a rinse and line dry besides the swimsuit would do the trick.  Scout camp at that age was all about the basics:  how to build and start a campfire, discover what plants were edible (and which weren’t – hopefully not be trial and error).  We learned first aid and canoeing and how to lash together large structures that didn’t fall over.  I set the “mile-swim” record and learned “lifesaving”.  We walked everywhere, and when we weren’t walking, we were hiking around and learning the rudiments of backpacking.

Camp weeks became a summer ritual in my life, from eleven until I was in my early twenties.  By then, I was backpacking all over the country, both with Scout groups and with my “packing” buddies.  And one of the things I discovered was the answer to the mystery of why all of those old guys were up at dawn, hanging out by the campfire they quickly built (or re-lit), and making that first pot of coffee.  

First Light

There’s nothing like the world right before it wakes up.  The air is still, not yet filled with the shouts of Tenderfeet discovering a garter snake in the middle of the path, or the inevitable barked orders of that fourteen year-old Patrol Leader trying to figure out how to actually lead.  The birds are chirping, but in that quiet, “hey we’re just getting up too” mode.  And in the right place (like more recent cross country camps we had at nearby Camp Falling Rock) there would be deer grazing just in the field, not concerned yet about the few humans moving slowly about.  

The world is still, the day is all anticipated, not yet started.  It’s the few moments when there’s still time to contemplate, to sip that first cup of dark, black, coffee (no additives for me, I take my coffee “barefoot”, thank you).  It’s just a time to breathe, and let the day come to you, instead of charging out from the get-go.  By the time I was in my late teens, I was out there with the “old men”, hanging by the campfire, joining in that early ritual of adult camping.

The Back Deck

This morning I went out with the dogs.  There was a rain last night, that drove the eighty degree humidity out of the air.  It was cool/comfortable at 6:30 on Sunday morning, sitting on the back deck here in Pataskala.  There weren’t many cars on State Route 16 yet, and Louisiana hadn’t found any squirrels to chase down.  While there were no deer in our backyard (anymore, that would be way too much for these dogs);  I’m sure they were in the field across the road. 

The quiet was there, the anticipation of a good day, the moments when I could just sip my coffee, and let the day come to me.  This Sunday morning I had a Camp Morning, at least for a few minutes.  It’s a great way to start.

The Sunday Story Series

Author: Marty Dahlman

I'm Marty Dahlman. After forty years of teaching and coaching track and cross country, I've finally retired!!! I've also spent a lot of time in politics, working campaigns from local school elections to Presidential campaigns.

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