The rules of camping

Ahh, camping.

For Canadians, it's a rite of passage.

As kids you just love the idea of being outside, in a tent, 'roughing it'. Never mind that mom & dad packed all the food and your clothes, and made sure you had foul weather gear (and you never went camping on purpose when the forecast called for rain).

Camping took on a whole new scope right around the time your punkass teenage self got into drinking and smoking dope.

Camping became "drinking (or partying) in tents".  Not a whole lot of roughing it ... campsites were sought out, with amenities like showers and clean (even flushable) toilets.

The key thing here was being 'relatively close' to nature – but not so close so as to actually be in peril from hungry bears.

There is a 'firewood' rule about camping, but more on that in a sec. There is another rule about camping we'll explore first: "Always set up your tent before you start drinking heavily and forget to ... otherwise you will end up sleeping in a pile of nylon and ropes".

For example:

Failure to heed the wisdom of Camping Rule #1: Set your tent up first, THEN drink heavily, results in this.

Here's the story behind this photo.  I camped a fair bit with a few pals from the Vancouver days in the early 90s.

Dave C. (pictured above) was a guy who really liked his booze. Sadly, booze didn't like him all that much. Booze was an evil playful trickster. Booze was a jerk and a son of a bitch to him. But I'll give booze this: it provided us with many, many laughs.

Once in the early going of getting into booze, booze fooled Dave into thinking that every time he got tanked, a cute girl would find him irresistible, and he'd get to take her home and do things to/with her. Sometimes that continued worked for Dave ... but more often than not, he'd end up a ruined, unconscious mess at the wicked, playful behest of booze.

That was how we found Dave on morning #1 on a "camping trip" to Cultus Lake in BC. He is, indeed, sleeping in a pile of nylon and ropes, because he failed to heed our wisdom (and our example). We set up our tents and got the site squared away as Dave cavorted and pounded beer, mocking us for being such good little campers.

Dave continued partying into the night, and when it came time to succumb to gravity's siren song, Dave found his tent thusly situated. He fell on it and passed out (especially funny is the one missing sock).

'Preparation' wasn't one of Dave's stronger suits. Not only did he fail hard in the setup stage, he also got into the car to come camping at the start of the trip with just one item: a large cooler full of beer.

No food, no water, no juice. No aspirin for the inevitable brain-slammer of a hangover. No change of clothes.

Just beer. At least he did have them on ice.

Adding to the fun when he finally awoke (after plenty of photography like this ensued) hung over as fuck, with a thrashing head, thirsty as hell, and with no food, was his simpering, whinging behaviour. Also, he was initially dew-damp from sleeping uncovered all night. But that was quickly superseded with being hot and nasty-sweaty, as the morning summer sun rapidly stewed off the dew, and proceded to bake him pretty well to a beer-sodden piece of toast as he lay there (as illustrated).

He moped around the site for a while, watching us make and enjoy breakfast. He moaned a fair bit, in between offering to pay anyone a LOT of money for a drink of juice, and some aspirins. Then more money on offer if someone made him breakfast. I had him up to about $30 at that point, but I kept upping the price because he was such easy pickings.

I hadn't seen a more forlorn looking victim of a hangover in some time ... finally someone else arrived from Vancouver to join the weekend fun, took pity on the spectacle, and provided Dave with juice and Tylenol. A hit off a joint immediately followed, and just like the Phoenix, he was reborn from the eternal damnation fires of the hangover.

Moments later, he was drinking beer again, feeling fantastic, ready for fun. All this, before noon.

No prizes for predicting the outcome of the that day, and the next morning – it was a carbon copy of the first. But there was the added bonus (for laughs) during that day. When the sober new arrival offered to take us to the nearest town for more beer, Dave eschewed that too. He had zeeroed in on a campsite with some girls nearby, and didn't want to leave ... lest they get scooped up by some other guys.

This leads us into Camping Rule #2: Firewood – When you think you have gathered enough firewood to enable you to have a nice big bonfire for the night, go back into the woods and get the same amount again, before darkness falls. Firewood burns far faster than you think it will.

This rule also applies to beer. Think about how much beer you might drink in a night of hard partying, then double that amount ... because you WILL need it. And there is no such thing as having "too much beer on hand".

Then go to the store with the person who offers to drive you, and get said beer. Else ye be paying dearly at the hands of your cruel friends.

Dave of course failed on that count, and we made a LOT of money off him that night, selling him our beers, long after his dwindling supply had vanished. Good thing he carried lots of cash at all times.

Rinse, repeat, and we had morning #2 as a carbon-copy of the first one.

Another pal once dubbed Dave "Cossaboom's drinking toy", and that certainly seemed to fit. This nickname ensued following Dave's flatmate finding him a crumpled mess in front of the apartment door, collapsed in an unconscious heap, keys in hand, at around 2.30 a.m. after drinking with me in the Vancouver bars ... incapable of holding it together long enough to get the door open, to collapse inside.

The flatmate rounded the corner, saw Dave collapsed in the distance, and immediately thought: "Heh, out drinking with Cossaboom again."

There are a thousand drunken stories from the savage, uncaring heart of the city. And I know most of them. They mostly star this Dave, in various states of disrepair (and waking up with less-than-attractive women) ... and another Dave who has the dubious distinction of being the most prolific puker I have ever met.

As time goes on I will relate such stories. We have fun topics like "Firelog or chilli-dog?", "Please stop me if you see me talking to a beast", and "The morning-after phone call from a mysterious location: Help me, I'm at the girl's place, she went to work, and I have NO idea where I am".

And many, many more.