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Do young
boys still go camping? I hope I’m wrong
on this, but it seems to me that they don’t. I, of course, at three score and ten, am out of the loop, so to speak, but I can honestly say that I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard of such a thing. It would be reassuring to find out that, yes, they still get their gear together and venture out to deal directly with whatever ol’ mother nature can dish out. One of my earliest memories, going way back to well before kindergarten, was to accompany my dad in the front seat of the old ’36 Chevy to “pick up” my two older brothers who were camping with some friends somewhere on the Nine Mile. This would have to be sometime in the year or two before Pearl Harbor. I was probably 5 or 6 years old. The details in my memory of that excursion are very, very vague. I have only a foggy picture of the intrepid campers “breaking camp” and myself playing in the nearby small stream while they got their gear together. That I remember it at all is probably some indication of the impression it made upon me. From that time on, I was inordinately fascinated by the concept of “camping.” With the start of WWII and gas rationing, such excursions were sharply curtailed. My next memory of an overnight stay in the woods, one that for many years was documented, occurred in the summer of 1946. I would have been nine years old. I say documented because on that trip I carved my initials into the logs of the cabin. The cabin has since fallen in on itself and all evidence of its use by hundreds of local campers destroyed. I camped at this place every year thereafter for many years and each year I dutifully either carved my initials or otherwise marked the date. Later on, approaching adolescence, there were the “official” camping trips, hosted by the Boy Scouts or a church group. These affairs, with adults in constant attendance, tended to be mostly exercises in social adaptation and group behavior and logistics. Useful, perhaps, in the eyes of the community, but to some of us youngsters they were not “real” camping trips. A real camping trip was strictly boy-made: we made all of the decisions, no parents or other adults were involved. At least all except how to get there (and back). If we were lucky, an older brother could be conned into driving us out and back, thereby skirting the parent “thing”. Sometimes, not very often, a couple of us would lash our gear to our beat up, balloon-tired bicycles and get out to a camping site that way. These were grueling treks in the days before lightweight cycles with gears that could be shifted. Regardless of how we got there, once set up we were on our own. And, of course, that was the whole point of it. Curiously, to announce that we were going camping was usually met with little or no reaction by our parents and others. Outside of a request for when and for how long, and a caution not to let one’s lawn mowing get behind, it was pretty much taken in stride. Or maybe, even, a gleeful “wonderful” from a sister who could then plan a big slumber party, now that there was to be an extra bedroom available. The planning of these camping trips was half the fun. Lists would be made, assignments handed out, gear inventoried and frequent meetings held to ensure that nothing would be overlooked. Menus were critical and a lot of time was spent ensuring that all meals would be acceptable to the group. Despite the careful preparations, often the results were not exactly world class cuisine. But I don’t recall that any of us ever got sick or starved. It is no small coincidence that the ending of that same WWII spurred interest in camping. Suddenly, tons of war surplus gear became available – packs, sleeping bags, tents, entrenching tools, clothing, C rations – you name it, all at cheap prices. We gobbled it up. Another major influence was the introduction of aluminum foil. It quickly became a staple of the camp kitchen. These and other developments of the time were instrumental in creating the recreational outdoor industry as we know it today. Not everyone, of course, stood the course. Through grade school and later junior high school, some would lose interest, drop out and get involved with other activities. There must have been several dozen camping trips by the time we entered high school, and a few of us had become somewhat skilled in the arts and crafts needed to enjoy a weekend in the woods. Even to the point of setting up winter camps. I remember one
such excursion to
the same camp were I cut my teeth as a 10-year old.
The three of us hiked in with our gear packed on a
toboggan. At
dawn the next day I was awakened by gun shots, or at least I thought
that was
what I heard. I got up, dressed, went outside to investigate. I discovered not some hunters firing guns,
but trees that were exploding because of the intense cold. It was that
cold!  Porcupines were fair game years ago. Here Roger "Dutch" Grigsby and Dick Covey display the results of one day's hunting. About 1952 Sometime before I was old enough to drive I got the bright idea of mounting a long solo excursion of my own. As I recall I would start at Cross Fork and hike overland, mostly by compass, to get back home. I figured I’d be out at least two, maybe three days. I believe the trip was also to satisfy some advanced requirement for a merit badge. I know I spent a lot of time preparing for the event. Little did I know that for once I would run afoul of parental objection. My mother, for some reason, seemed to be comfortable with the idea, but my dad, apparently had some reservations. And I needed my dad to drive me to Cross Fork for the jumping off. To this day I’m not sure whether his decision to work me hard unloading a truck load of lumber the day I was to start in the hopes that I’d be too tired to undertake the hike was by design or whether it was coincidence. In any event, it backfired and late in the afternoon I still insisted on going. Now we were in a real pickle as it would be dark in a few hours. What I do remember clearly is that he seemed to have trouble finding the “right roads” to Cross Fork. And by then, with dusk fast approaching, I was willing to settle on just about any drop off point just to get going. We finally agreed on a place and I was out of the car, into the woods and on my own. The problem was I didn’t really know where I was. But I did know that the first order of business was to establish some sort of camp, get a night’s sleep, then I could tackle the larger issue of location. In the morning all was well and I set out on what I thought was a reasonable rhumb line to Coudersport. As it turned out, he had out smarted me as the natural lay of the land was such that before too long I came out onto a road. A brisk couple of hours walking brought me to a farm and there I was able to verify my location. Boy, was I ticked off - I was no more than ten or twelve miles from town and could easily complete the trip that day. After all that preparation, the careful weighing of food packets, the practice with map and compass, etc., etc., I was fit to be tied. I arrived home just as my mother was removing an apple pie from the oven. “Oh, it’s you. Would you like a piece of pie?” So much for being an intrepid woodsman home from a perilous adventure in the hills of Potter County. But the pie was quickly devoured. I don’t recall that my dad and I ever discussed the Cross Fork trip. In an era when AM radio, scratchy 78's and movies were the only form of entertainment, when “kids” had to make their own fun (after the chores were done), when few if any school activities were offered in the summer months, time hung heavily on youngsters eager to “do something.” That’s when someone would pipe up and suggest, “Hell, let’s go camping.” No problem. Then.
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