Camp Life

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Posted here with permission from Steve Watts...

Camp Life
Steven M. Watts
2011​

“Here I am camped by a rushing river between forest-clad hills. It is close on ten in the morning. I turned out at five, and yet those five hours have been full of work for me, albeit it was no more than little camp jobs. The fire had to be lit, coffee and scones to be made. Then followed boiling and sand-scrubbing the cooking utensils; collecting of firewood for the day (both kindling and ember-forming wood); a new crossbar and pothooks had to be cut and trimmed; a pair of tongs for the fire, and a besom for cleaning the camp ground hd to be cut and made. Bedding had to be aired and stowed; moccasins to be greased; the camp ground swept up and rubbish burned; the trout had to be gutted and washed. Finally, I had a shave and a bathe; and here I am ready for the day’s work whatever it may be.” - Lord Robert Baden Powell, 1911

Camp life is about the simple pleasures. It’s about elegant actions performed on a rustic stage. And, it’s about manageable tasks aimed at subsistence, efficiency and personal re-creation. In camp, the most humble of jobs are granted the worthiness they deserve. The basic needs of food, shelter, warmth and water are front and center in the camping life. Nothing goes unnoticed, and nothing seems extraneous.

The beauty of the Classic Camping style provides the backdrop for this special life in the open. Bright flannel shirts, silk scarves and Indian trade blankets are set against the muted tones of canvas, wood and metal to color the scene—while the glow of campfires, candles and lanterns softly break the darkness.

It is the perfect intersection of work and play. The outdoorsman labors in the necessary duties of camp life, and then revels in the guiltless pleasures of woods-loafing. The day’s routine is flavored by the camper’s direct contact with the natural world. A wool mackinaw greets the cool morning, a broad brimmed hat repels the sun of a warm mid-day, and the well-pitched tent provides a snug and dry retreat from an afternoon thunderstorm.

Camp life is about the small adjustments in life—loosening or tightening the tent’s guy lines, raising or lowering the tea kettle, stropping the edge of a knife or rearranging that one piece of wood in the fire for the perfect flame.

The preparation of meals, the arrangement of gear, the hauling of water and firewood are never viewed as mere chores. They are elevated to the status of “campcraft”—the means by which you live in your own chosen nomadic comfort.

And, ultimately camp life is about the heart and soul. It is evocative---hard to define, but as clear to you as an early autumn sky. When practiced with skill and passion it is simply best understood as—home.

“My comrade went in yesterday to the nearest hamlet, and will be back today with our letters and supplies. He will find me away fishing or sketching, and gathering berries for our sweet of stewed fruit at dinner; but he will find the camp swept and garnished, fire laid ready to be lit, cooking pots, cups, and plates all ready and clean for his use, and food handy. All the succession of very little jobs, but which in their sum are important. They all give enjoyment and satisfaction…they bring delight, experience, resourcefulness, self-reliance, thought for others, and the excellent discipline of camp-tradition.” - Lord Robert Baden Powell, 1911



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Nice! Where are you getting these articles? I see stuff Mr. Watts has written in Backwoodsman magazine, but haven't seen any elsewhere? Thanks for posting them and thank Mr. Watts for letting you.

Scott
 
Scott Allen said:
Nice! Where are you getting these articles? I see stuff Mr. Watts has written in Backwoodsman magazine, but haven't seen any elsewhere? Thanks for posting them and thank Mr. Watts for letting you.

Scott
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Steve is a friend. Woodsmoke would be a great opportunity to see and hear from Watts and others on Bushcraft, et al. Hope you can make it and I will make sure he gets your thanks!
 
I want that hat in the last pic! And the boots!! Great post. Love the golden age of camp craft. Inspiring.
 
Excerpt from Gypsy Jack's Camping Journal, Steve Watts, 2011

"Charlie is a rich, famous, arrogant, borderline genius…I like him anyway. We first met in 1914. His star was just then breaking on the far horizon. I got introduced to him in a beachside diner by an old Montana horse wrangler pal of mine who was working in the moving picture business at the time. Somehow, we struck it off, and have been friends ever sense.

Folks in that dusty little town have always thought us a strange pair—one day walking the back streets with rucksacks loaded down on the way to who knows where—and the next day cruising Hollywood boulevard in Charlie’s new green Packard convertible (the back seat stuffed full of firewood, fly rods and canned goods). Nowadays, I see him less and less. I don’t get to that part of the country too often anymore…and well, let’s just say that Charlie (almost thirty years my junior) lives life at a bit faster pace than my own.

But, in those early days, we had us a time. I think he looked to me for an escape. We’d pack up and light out of town to camp on the beaches and in the hobo jungles up and down the coast from San Diego to Big Sur. Chaplin was proud of his tin can cookery skills, and would delight in adding a fine bottle of wine or a fresh lobster to a tramp’s orange crate dinner table. He admired the resourcefulness he found in the hobo camps, always contrasting it to the wanton wastefulness he witnessed among his well-to-do friends. Say what you want to about him, he was truly concerned for those on the fringes of society. As for the tramps themselves, they had problems separating Charlie the man from his screen persona…and that suited Chaplin just fine.

Last I heard from him, he’s busier than ever and hasn’t been camping in months. . He’s been working on a movie idea about the gold rush up in Alaska and wants me to help him put together some believable Klondike gear. I guess it’s about time for a visit. Besides, he promised to introduce me to Mary Pickford.”

- Gypsy Jack, 1924
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“Jack London told me years ago that a steady diet of train smoke and canned beans will kill you. It was time to get off the road for a while. I had a well worn hat and a fully stocked bindle. What I needed now was a hot bath and a square meal-- served up proper-- by a female.

Now, this not to say that I haven’t had many a good camp meal in my time. As a matter of fact, honest grub cooked over an open fire by a talented camp cook rivals the best that Paris has to offer. And, Kephart was among the best of these backwoods chefs. He moved around the cook fire, the pots, the pans and the food bags more naturally than anyone I ever saw. And, he served up his meals with a dash of strong opinions ranging from Shakespeare’s true identity to the value of Abercrombie and Fitch’s latest camp gizmos.

Most memorable to me was a mid-day meal old Kep conjured up one day from a string of trout, a bag of cornmeal, a slab of salt-cured bacon, and a hat full of pot herbs gathered by the creek. It was a sight to behold. There in a wet green cove--deep in the Smokey Mountains--four men (me, Kephart, a Japanese photographer, and an old Cherokee woodcarver from Big Cove) ate like starving wolves. We licked our fingers, we licked our forks, we licked our plates—and I would have licked the very ground had I been so foolish as to have dropped a single morsel.” - Gypsy Jack, 1923

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A great post! Thanks. The golden age of camping must have been something whe all was going well. The pic of the gent in front of his canvas tent with the doormat...love it!

Regards,

ezra
 
I'd love to learn more about this "Gypsy Jack". I've read Kephart, Nessmuck, and others, but have never heard of this gentleman. Do you have any source information or book titles that I can look for? I googled him and nothing much comes up. Thanks!

Scott
 
:58: Post edited for my own personal entertainment.
 
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Those are the stories that spark the desire to get out into the wild and wonder filled places around us and not return for a month or two.

Thank you for sharing them with us.
 
“Dear Mr. President,

It’s been a while since we shared a campfire, a meal or a joke. Here’s hoping you are well and that job of yours is not keeping you too long from the hunt. You ask me for my opinion prior to your California visit as it relates to our mutual friend. So, here goes.

He walks in the clouds and he camps with the gods. Now don’t get me wrong, Johnny Muir has his faults aplenty. He’s no different from me, or you, or anyone else in that respect. But, for sure and for certain, I’ve never known another soul quite like him.

Typically….It’s early morning in the high Sierras and John is up and seeing to the business of breakfast—or what passes for breakfast in the meager camp of this ascetic. Its tea and thin hot-rock-cooked oat bread again. Last night was the same—as was the day before—and as it will be tomorrow. How can such an inventive mind fail at the simple challenge of subsistence? I am of the hearty breakfast clan, as you know--a couple of eggs fried up with some form of hog meat, all washed down with multiple cups of hot, sweet coffee. But alas, such things take time. It’s funny, John can spend hours at a sitting inspecting sunsets, wildflowers, and cougar scat—but considers time spent at food preparation just a waste. To him, it’s a chore best consigned to mere mortals.

So, with breakfast done—we kick out the fire and the lessons begin. Welcome to the John Muir Peripatetic School of Wild Consciousness where we walk and he talks. He can do both all day. Now, I’ve tramped the trail with the best and the worst of them—but none compare to Muir. His energy afoot is legendary and his oratory is convincing. ‘Yes, yes, John—I’ll join your infernal Sierra Club. Can we just stop and cook up some decent grub!’

Don’t get me wrong Mr. President, I have the highest respect for Muir. He sees things I can only imagine and I envy his work ethic (though I choose not to emulate it). Never underestimate him. Many have been lulled unaware by his lyrical writing. But, he’s as on fire as any Old Testament prophet … as fierce as any highland clan chief… and as strong as those big trees he worships. You are among the few capable of standing toe-to-toe with Mount Muir.

Sorry I won’t be able to join you two in camp, but I’m headed down Sonora way for a while. I’m not sure where you’ll be camping, but anywhere in Yosemite makes for a fine stay. John knows all the best places.

Give my best to the wife and kids.

Sincerely,
Gypsy Jack
March, 1903

PS….Don’t forget… you promised that once this president job is done we’re heading for British East Africa. I’ve already been in touch with R. J. Cunningham in Nairobi. I think he might be our best bet for a guide. “
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;) From Gypsy Jack’s Camping Journal, Steve Watts, 2011


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This thread strirs up so many emotions in me. I may have to head up to Featherstick next week for a coulple days of camp life....
 
Panzer said:
I want that hat in the last pic! And the boots!! Great post. Love the golden age of camp craft. Inspiring.
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Get an old Drill seargeants campaign hat off ebay and a scoutmaster hat band from the BSA. I have that Identical set up, or a model 1911 service cap if you want "official". Boots appear to be model 1931 Mounted Service Boots and can be found here [URL]http://onlinemilitaria.net/shopexd.asp?id=2124&bc=no[/URL] I too love the boots and could so camp like that.

EDIT: It appears the gentleman also has a pair of Patton Model riding boots that have the built in leather putees. That's cool.
 
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Hiline said:
Get an old Drill seargeants campaign hat off ebay and a scoutmaster hat band from the BSA. I have that Identical set up, or a model 1911 service cap if you want "official". Boots appear to be model 1931 Mounted Service Boots and can be found here [URL]http://onlinemilitaria.net/shopexd.asp?id=2124&bc=no[/URL] I too love the boots and could so camp like that.

EDIT: It appears the gentleman also has a pair of Patton Model riding boots that have the built in leather putees. That's cool.
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That's no gentleman that's Dude McLean:4:.
You should have seen his and Paul Campbell's face to face lean-to's at Wintercount 2010, he's pretty serious about camping in the old style too.
 
Another letter from Gypsy Jack's Camping Journal...

“The pilgrim’s passion drives him to extremes—spending time and treasure in pursuit of sacred sites, holy shrines and points of power. The zealot’s dream may lead him through the snow, along steep yak trails to a hermit’s cave (high in the Himalayas)…or far upstream by dugout canoe on a remote black water river to a shaman’s hut (hidden deep in the rain forest gloom)…or to the ruins of an ancient temple scattered along the sun-baked rocky hills of the Mediterranean coast (the last refuge of a long-forgotten god).

My pilgrimage (less grand, but no less potent) had brought me to a camp in the backyard of an old man in Wellsboro, Pennsylvania. G.W. Sears was ailing once again, and the word had been passed along the backtrail that this might be his last spring among the living. So, I was here in Nessmuk’s yard, a few feet from his back door, where the family had helped him set up the old shanty tent one last time. Everyone knew that these would be his final campfires.

I liked him right off. He looked like an ancient spirit of the woods, with a twisted up beard and a scent of hemlock about him. He played camping with the grandchildren, told stories of the Michigan backcountry, and recited his own poetry (taking odd pauses here and there to catch his failing breath). At night, he fondled his old camp gear with the tender caresses of a lover. He wrote something in the front leaf of my stained and tattered copy of Woodcraft. It was unintelligible, like a tangle of vines along a river bank. We took dream trips across Adirondack lakes, paddling the conjured-up memories of his fairy-sized canoes. We shot birds on the wing by the score, as they flew across our imaginations. He was sometimes cranky and sometimes sublime. At times he made me feel like an old camp chum, at other times like a bumbling intruder. I like to think that my visit gave the family a bit of a break, but after three days I knew it was time for me to drift on.

I left him by the fire, oiling his old gun. I looked back one last time. His face seemed to be disappearing into the smoke. And, I swear…I think he winked at me.”
Gypsy Jack, April 1890​

“Got word yesterday that Nessmuk died at home last month. They buried him in a grove of trees in front of his house. Good camping, old pard…wherever you are.”

Gypsy Jack,
Walden Pond, June 1890​
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I always loved that type of camping. When I was in the Boy Scouts in the 60's our troop used to have old surplus US Army troop tents that held 10-20 people each. We had to make cots from branches, etc. I used to camp and hike with a pair of mocassins that were knee height and laced up the front,even had a sheath in the left one. Wish I still had those. Thanks for the great thread.
Paul
 
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