RSS FeedNov 18 2008
Getting In Touch with My Inner Rambo (or Maybe Rambette)
This past weekend, I traveled back to Arizona to participate in an annual camping trip with friends. Charlie was initially supposed to go with me, but he ended up having a work commitments that kept him in Dallas until fairly late Friday night. So, he had to fink out on me. The original plan had been for Charlie and I to drive out with our fairly deluxe collection of camping gear. But when it was determined he wouldn’t be coming, I couldn’t find the motivation to drive all that gear out for a weekend event for just little ol’ me. Instead, I decided to fly in to Tucson and supplement my flying-friendly minimalistic rig with a few key pieces borrowed from friends. You know—minor things like a tent and enough bedding not to freeze into a block of ice overnight.
All this sounded great in the planning stages, but I forgot one critical element–who I was dealing with when I put out calls for help… The first person I asked is my friend Warren Faidley, who makes his living as a professional stormchaser. I don’t normally tend to think of myself as a princess, but Warren’s idea of “enough bedding” to keep me warm was one of those goofy little Mylar blankets you find sold in $1.99 “survival” kits at back-road truck stops. (I exaggerate slightly for the sake of the story, but not by much.)
Weekend Learning Lesson #1 for me–never ask the guy who spent the worst hours of Hurricane Andrew chest-deep in water in the basement of a parking garage in order to report for CNN for enough blankets to stay “reasonably warm”. Warren is not a guy who easily grasps the concept of “reasonable”. And “warm” is totally out of the question.
Learning Lesson #2 was: if you’re going to borrow a tent from someone make sure to check it out throughly before you head out to the camping site. (This, by the way, is a close cousin to the rule: never try to set up a new tent for the first time after dark. I learned that one many years ago.)
Anyway, I made plans to borrow a dome tent from my friend Argyle. I think at some point everyone jokingly describes someone of their acquaintances as “having done too many drugs in the 60’s”. Well, in Argyle’s case, it’s actually true. He had the rap-sheet and Hepatitis C to prove it before cleaning up his life. Argyle is a very cool man with a huge heart. I am happy to claim him as a dear friend. But I just have to say that sometimes common sense completely escapes the man.
This lack of common sense was reflected in two ways in terms of the tent he loaned me. The first was the size of the tent. Argyle had assured me that the tent was big enough to comfortably sleep two adults on a queen-size mattress. Well, the reality was, the only way that could have possibly happened is if the theoretical adults he was describing were malnourished hobbits.
I’ve never honestly seen a dome tent as small as the one Argyle loaned me. I could barely fit myself (at 5 foot 11 inches), head to toe, inside the tent, let alone have room for anything else. I seriously suspect the thing shrunk in the rain during a previous camping trip. Either that or the tent was designed so that your pet dog could have its own space overnight. Suffice to say, my duffle bag of clothes and other camping gear ended up spending the weekend outside the tent.
I guess I shouldn’t have been quite so concerned about whether or not I actually fit inside the tent because the second issue with the tent made itself quickly apparent—the front door was no longer attached to the tent. Somehow Argyll had neglected to mention this minor fact when he said he had a tent I could use.
Now, call me old-fashioned, but when I’m camping out in the desert I kind of like having a way to seal up my tent. First, it helps to keep heat in a night. And second, it helps keep creepy-crawly things out. I’ve already been bit once by a brown recluse and I’m really not in a hurry to repeat the experience. Things were further complicated by the fact that I ended up staking my tent facing into the direction of what the wind ended up blowing all weekend. (Did I mention that camping in the desert also tends to be pretty dusty? It’s never good when you’re so gritty from camping that you can feel the sand lodged between your teeth.)
When I set up camp I wrestled with the zipper on the tent for about a half hour and thought I had it to the point where the door would stay on. But when I actually turned in for the night around midnight, the door was back on the ground. It was already freaking cold outside and I didn’t have the patience to try to wrestle with it again in the dark. Instead, I crawled inside the tent, whipped out the small package of safety pins I travel with–I tend to look obsessive-compulsive next to Eagle Scouts when it comes to certain things–and stitched the edge of the door to the rest of the tent.
When I ran short of safety pins, I grabbed the two pairs of earrings and a pin I had with me, and closed the most egregious of the remaining gaps. Then I crawled under my pathetic little Mylar blanket and did my best to pretend I was sleeping until sunrise, sandy teeth chattering through the night.
Anyway, that ended up being the way my tent was held together the rest of the weekend. The crew I was camping with ended up laughingly referring to it a “Steph’s Goth tent”. To be fair, more than one person in camp offered me crash space in their much more luxurious tents replete with tent heaters. But at that point, it was a matter of pride to stick it out in my little hobbit hovel.
I froze my ass off. I and all my belongings were covered in grime from head to toe. And I did, in fact, end up having creepy-crawly things visit me in my tent. Most importantly, though, I ended up having a total blast with friends I haven’t seen in too long.
This experience got me thinking about my place in Portland. While I’ve still got a long way to go in terms of renovations I want to do, if I’m being completely honest, the place is to a point of being pretty much habitable in its current state. All the windows and doors are now in place. It’s got a functional–albeit, admittedly ugly–bathroom and kitchen. The biggest creature-comfort that’s missing at this point is any sort of heat source. (Well that, and any sort of insulation in the walls of the new back room.)
But until I have the new heaters added by the electrician, it wouldn’t be that hard to bring in a portable unit and live in the front half of the house. It’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable than how I spent the weekend and I came out of that no worse for that experience. And as much as I like my creature comforts, I’m capable of roughing it if push comes to shove.
I think being there would make it significantly easier to coordinate some of the remaining work that needs to be done and possibly even light a fire under Kenny’s crew. (Hey, a girl can dream.) Plus, I’m just ready to spend some time in my house, dang it.
Anyway, the game plan I formulated on the way back from my camping trip is to drive my Mini Cooper up to Portland over the holiday weekend of Jan 1st and then camp out in the house for a few weeks and try get the remaining interior work kickstarted.
I made sure to book my return flight in late January on Southwest. Not only will they let me move up my departure date without a change fee in case I discover I’m truly miserable in the house with no central heat, but they also offer the only direct flight beteen Portland and Albuquerque I’ve been able to find on any of the airlines. Go figure.
So expect tales of “roughing it” on the river shortly after the holidays are past. Hey, at least with my house I’ll have a front door that actually shuts.
If you enjoyed this post, please consider subscribing to our RSS feed.
Related posts:
This past weekend, I traveled back to Arizona to participate in an annual camping trip with friends. Charlie was initially supposed to go with me, but he ended up having a work commitments that kept him in Dallas until fairly late Friday night. So, he had to fink out on me. The original plan had been for Charlie and I to drive out with our fairly deluxe collection of camping gear. But when it was determined he wouldn’t be coming, I couldn’t find the motivation to drive all that gear out for a weekend event for just little ol’ me. Instead, I decided to fly in to Tucson and supplement my flying-friendly minimalistic rig with a few key pieces borrowed from friends. You know—minor things like a tent and enough bedding not to freeze into a block of ice overnight.
All this sounded great in the planning stages, but I forgot one critical element–who I was dealing with when I put out calls for help… The first person I asked is my friend Warren Faidley, who makes his living as a professional stormchaser. I don’t normally tend to think of myself as a princess, but Warren’s idea of “enough bedding” to keep me warm was one of those goofy little Mylar blankets you find sold in $1.99 “survival” kits at back-road truck stops. (I exaggerate slightly for the sake of the story, but not by much.)
Weekend Learning Lesson #1 for me–never ask the guy who spent the worst hours of Hurricane Andrew chest-deep in water in the basement of a parking garage in order to report for CNN for enough blankets to stay “reasonably warm”. Warren is not a guy who easily grasps the concept of “reasonable”. And “warm” is totally out of the question.
Learning Lesson #2 was: if you’re going to borrow a tent from someone make sure to check it out throughly before you head out to the camping site. (This, by the way, is a close cousin to the rule: never try to set up a new tent for the first time after dark. I learned that one many years ago.)
Anyway, I made plans to borrow a dome tent from my friend Argyle. I think at some point everyone jokingly describes someone of their acquaintances as “having done too many drugs in the 60’s”. Well, in Argyle’s case, it’s actually true. He had the rap-sheet and Hepatitis C to prove it before cleaning up his life. Argyle is a very cool man with a huge heart. I am happy to claim him as a dear friend. But I just have to say that sometimes common sense completely escapes the man.
This lack of common sense was reflected in two ways in terms of the tent he loaned me. The first was the size of the tent. Argyle had assured me that the tent was big enough to comfortably sleep two adults on a queen-size mattress. Well, the reality was, the only way that could have possibly happened is if the theoretical adults he was describing were malnourished hobbits.
I’ve never honestly seen a dome tent as small as the one Argyle loaned me. I could barely fit myself (at 5 foot 11 inches), head to toe, inside the tent, let alone have room for anything else. I seriously suspect the thing shrunk in the rain during a previous camping trip. Either that or the tent was designed so that your pet dog could have its own space overnight. Suffice to say, my duffle bag of clothes and other camping gear ended up spending the weekend outside the tent.
I guess I shouldn’t have been quite so concerned about whether or not I actually fit inside the tent because the second issue with the tent made itself quickly apparent—the front door was no longer attached to the tent. Somehow Argyll had neglected to mention this minor fact when he said he had a tent I could use.
Now, call me old-fashioned, but when I’m camping out in the desert I kind of like having a way to seal up my tent. First, it helps to keep heat in a night. And second, it helps keep creepy-crawly things out. I’ve already been bit once by a brown recluse and I’m really not in a hurry to repeat the experience. Things were further complicated by the fact that I ended up staking my tent facing into the direction of what the wind ended up blowing all weekend. (Did I mention that camping in the desert also tends to be pretty dusty? It’s never good when you’re so gritty from camping that you can feel the sand lodged between your teeth.)
When I set up camp I wrestled with the zipper on the tent for about a half hour and thought I had it to the point where the door would stay on. But when I actually turned in for the night around midnight, the door was back on the ground. It was already freaking cold outside and I didn’t have the patience to try to wrestle with it again in the dark. Instead, I crawled inside the tent, whipped out the small package of safety pins I travel with–I tend to look obsessive-compulsive next to Eagle Scouts when it comes to certain things–and stitched the edge of the door to the rest of the tent.
When I ran short of safety pins, I grabbed the two pairs of earrings and a pin I had with me, and closed the most egregious of the remaining gaps. Then I crawled under my pathetic little Mylar blanket and did my best to pretend I was sleeping until sunrise, sandy teeth chattering through the night.
Anyway, that ended up being the way my tent was held together the rest of the weekend. The crew I was camping with ended up laughingly referring to it a “Steph’s Goth tent”. To be fair, more than one person in camp offered me crash space in their much more luxurious tents replete with tent heaters. But at that point, it was a matter of pride to stick it out in my little hobbit hovel.
I froze my ass off. I and all my belongings were covered in grime from head to toe. And I did, in fact, end up having creepy-crawly things visit me in my tent. Most importantly, though, I ended up having a total blast with friends I haven’t seen in too long.
This experience got me thinking about my place in Portland. While I’ve still got a long way to go in terms of renovations I want to do, if I’m being completely honest, the place is to a point of being pretty much habitable in its current state. All the windows and doors are now in place. It’s got a functional–albeit, admittedly ugly–bathroom and kitchen. The biggest creature-comfort that’s missing at this point is any sort of heat source. (Well that, and any sort of insulation in the walls of the new back room.)
But until I have the new heaters added by the electrician, it wouldn’t be that hard to bring in a portable unit and live in the front half of the house. It’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable than how I spent the weekend and I came out of that no worse for that experience. And as much as I like my creature comforts, I’m capable of roughing it if push comes to shove.
I think being there would make it significantly easier to coordinate some of the remaining work that needs to be done and possibly even light a fire under Kenny’s crew. (Hey, a girl can dream.) Plus, I’m just ready to spend some time in my house, dang it.
Anyway, the game plan I formulated on the way back from my camping trip is to drive my Mini Cooper up to Portland over the holiday weekend of Jan 1st and then camp out in the house for a few weeks and try get the remaining interior work kickstarted.
I made sure to book my return flight in late January on Southwest. Not only will they let me move up my departure date without a change fee in case I discover I’m truly miserable in the house with no central heat, but they also offer the only direct flight beteen Portland and Albuquerque I’ve been able to find on any of the airlines. Go figure.
So expect tales of “roughing it” on the river shortly after the holidays are past. Hey, at least with my house I’ll have a front door that actually shuts.
If you enjoyed this post, please consider subscribing to our RSS feed.
Related posts:
James NomadRip
RowdyKittens
EJ
LB
Ed Davies
