Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Wilderness Wench
by Donalee Wallace
The more things change, the more the adventure feels the same
My dad nicknamed me “Bear Bait” before
I was old enough to understand
the jest of it. We had embarked on
a 10-day rugged backpacking trip
high into the mountains of northern
BC, deep in the heart of grizzly
country — a place you wouldn’t normally find an 80-pound
blue-eyed blond girl. I was 13-years-old at the time but
that nickname has stuck, along with my deep-rooted fear
of becoming bear scat on the side of one of those mountain
ranges way back when I thought I was bullet proof.
Back then I was a tom-girl in my father’s wilderness
world — a world without frills and handy-wipes, a world
where camping meant roughing it. Wilderness excursions
with my father usually involved backpacking half my body
weight up the vertical spine of a craggy mountain without
mercy and roping myself to a tree when I had to pee.
Back then waffle-stompers were the trend in wilderness
footwear, mountain springs had the purest water on earth,
granola wasn’t just for Jesus freaks and beans were cheap
campfire humour until you bunked at night. Tents were
made of plastic and a few yards of rope for enhanced star
gazing. Insects were a minor issue. Waking up to a hormonal
bear sniffing in your sleeping bag was considered major.
Thirty years later I observe some fairly noticeable
changes on a camping trip into the wilderness
with my boyfriend and my dog.
Two people with a dog now apparently need a sixperson
tent with three exits, three sleeping bags, three
pillows, five-inch foams and enough food and Perrier
for a party of five. Evenings consist of chicken breast
roasted on a high-tech wiener rod and a dip in the river
before oozing into the tent to watch a movie on the laptop
plugged into a converter in the cab of the truck.
When nature calls things get
serious in my bear-phobic world.
Armed with a nine-volt flashlight, a
bad attitude and a large can of bear
spray holstered to my hip I trudge
forth like Rambo into the brush.
Paper clutched in one hand I navigate
my way through crotch-high
thistles to find a tranquil place to
do the deed at lightning speed and
avoid being targeted for lunch.
Horseflies resembling pissedoff
hummingbirds are as thick
as crows on roadkill and twice
as nasty. The glacier-fed river is
sub-zero and, though refreshing,
renders our privates unconscious
after three minutes flat. However,
the scenery is breathtakingly beautiful
where we camp 200 yards
off the highway.
A trip for three
days has taken us a week to pack
for and a half day to drive to.
But just like roughing it as a
kid with my dad, I wouldn’t change
a moment of this. The memories
made back then and now are both
special. Just because the experience
is different doesn’t mean
it’s any less of an adventure. I’m
lodged somewhere in the middle of
“roughing it” and “glamour camping,”
and this one-woman jury is
deliberating on the verdict.
The more things change, the more the adventure feels the same
My dad nicknamed me “Bear Bait” before
I was old enough to understand
the jest of it. We had embarked on
a 10-day rugged backpacking trip
high into the mountains of northern
BC, deep in the heart of grizzly
country — a place you wouldn’t normally find an 80-pound
blue-eyed blond girl. I was 13-years-old at the time but
that nickname has stuck, along with my deep-rooted fear
of becoming bear scat on the side of one of those mountain
ranges way back when I thought I was bullet proof.
Back then I was a tom-girl in my father’s wilderness
world — a world without frills and handy-wipes, a world
where camping meant roughing it. Wilderness excursions
with my father usually involved backpacking half my body
weight up the vertical spine of a craggy mountain without
mercy and roping myself to a tree when I had to pee.
Back then waffle-stompers were the trend in wilderness
footwear, mountain springs had the purest water on earth,
granola wasn’t just for Jesus freaks and beans were cheap
campfire humour until you bunked at night. Tents were
made of plastic and a few yards of rope for enhanced star
gazing. Insects were a minor issue. Waking up to a hormonal
bear sniffing in your sleeping bag was considered major.
Thirty years later I observe some fairly noticeable
changes on a camping trip into the wilderness
with my boyfriend and my dog.
Two people with a dog now apparently need a sixperson
tent with three exits, three sleeping bags, three
pillows, five-inch foams and enough food and Perrier
for a party of five. Evenings consist of chicken breast
roasted on a high-tech wiener rod and a dip in the river
before oozing into the tent to watch a movie on the laptop
plugged into a converter in the cab of the truck.
When nature calls things get
serious in my bear-phobic world.
Armed with a nine-volt flashlight, a
bad attitude and a large can of bear
spray holstered to my hip I trudge
forth like Rambo into the brush.
Paper clutched in one hand I navigate
my way through crotch-high
thistles to find a tranquil place to
do the deed at lightning speed and
avoid being targeted for lunch.
Horseflies resembling pissedoff
hummingbirds are as thick
as crows on roadkill and twice
as nasty. The glacier-fed river is
sub-zero and, though refreshing,
renders our privates unconscious
after three minutes flat. However,
the scenery is breathtakingly beautiful
where we camp 200 yards
off the highway.
A trip for three
days has taken us a week to pack
for and a half day to drive to.
But just like roughing it as a
kid with my dad, I wouldn’t change
a moment of this. The memories
made back then and now are both
special. Just because the experience
is different doesn’t mean
it’s any less of an adventure. I’m
lodged somewhere in the middle of
“roughing it” and “glamour camping,”
and this one-woman jury is
deliberating on the verdict.
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