When my dad calls me, we talk about camping.
From what I can tell, he has favourite topics with each of his four sons, ranging from cars to canoes to real estate to target shooting. With me it's camping. From as early as I can remember, dad took us out camping, and even served as my Scout leader. As far I am concerned, that is what boys do. They go camping. And they go year-round.
R does not necessarily share my love of camping, although she loves the outdoors. While she was growing up, her family used to take their vacations at a lake in the Rocky Mountains near Calgary, and she loves nothing more than the feeling of the water and the sun in the summer. Just don't ask her to sleep in a tent out in the snow.
I have had the privilege of being a Scout leader myself for four years -- up until about a year ago. We would camp three or four times each year, once in each season. While fall camps were probably the most pleasant (still warm but no bugs), there was still something special about the winter camps. I think it is the thrill of survival. When you go out and sleep the night when it's -30 degrees C, you have won some small victory over Nature. This irks Nature, because it has spent most of the summer plotting to kill you.
However, before the battle for survival can begin, there is another contest which must be won. The leaders first have to convince the boys to leave their comfortable homes to spend the night outdoors. This is easier the first time, when the boys don't know any bettter. Once they've had an encounter with Nature, they become harder to fool. Such was the case in winter 2006, when the boys went on strike.
Most seasons of the year other than winter, we would camp on the bank of the Gatineau River in Quebec, about 45 minutes north of Ottawa, where a dam makes the river as wide and calm as a lake. The site is accessible only by boat, so it is quite isolated and lots of fun. For winter camps, we would usually camp nearer the city, in places easily accessed by car. Two years ago, we decided to have our winter camp later in the year (March) at our favourite spot on the river. We used cross-country skis to get across, since a boat would be fairly useless amid 30 inches of ice.
As usual, it worked fairly well the first time around, but when we tried to duplicate it last winter, the boys were not quite so willing. Perhaps it was because we stepped out of the van at the starting point (a farm across the river from the campsite) into 3 feet of snow, with rain pouring down all around us.
Actually, only some of us stepped out of the van into the rain-soaked snow. Several of the boys refused to get out at all. They were on strike. They could not see the sense in submitting themselves to this kind of misery. In hindsight, I don't really blame them, but at the time, I thought they were being pansies. Several of us leaders set out with a
coalition of the willing to set up camp, while one leader began negotiations to end the strike.
With six inches of water pooled on top of the ice, there was no way we were crossing the river, so we set up camp on the farm, back among some trees. I immediately seized upon the opportunity to build a snow wall around the camp-fire area. Although this could possibly serve to block the wind, it was mainly a "make-work" project to inspire the boys to activity. Soon, they had all left the van and we were knee-deep in the half-slush, working to build the wall. Not long afterwards, the rain even stopped.
The following day was warm and sunny, and a perfect day for camping -- as long as you don't mind spending the morning in frozen boots from the night before. Thoughts of a strike melted away into the glistening snow, never to be seen again.
So, what do boys do in the winter when there is nowhere to go and they have access to cross-country skis, a snowmobile and a tarp?
They try parasailing.
The four corners of the tarp were tied to an old duffle bag, which 14-year-old J strapped on his shoulders, after he had stepped into his skis. Being pulled behind the snowmobile, he nearly got airborne.
... kind of.
"Nearly got killed" is more like it. As the snowmobile pulled J along faster and faster, the tarp filled with air and pulled back progressively harder until
something had to give. When the straps finally gave way and broke off the duffle bag, it gave J a nice welt on his shoulder. Strangely enough, he loved it -- loved the whole experience. From what I hear, the boys are excited to go back this year.
As for me, I can't wait to take my boy camping. That's what boys do.
