When little kids are toying with the notion of running away to join the circus or the dot-com boom or whatever, they have the almost genetically ingrained tradition of tying the cloth satchel to the stick, hoisting the stick over their shoulders, and soldiering bravely into the unknown.
It was sort of like that when we left our cozy, rain-washed tent on Sunday morning. We’d puttered about after breakfast, washing the dishes and rearranging the wet/dry stuff in and out of our tent. I’d lifted the heavy tarpaulin off the sides of the tent to air both rooms out, but we let it all down again before we left. Stuart had prepped and adjusted our rods and gotten the tackle ready. And off we went, rods on shoulders and water bottle in backpack and a small lunch and everything.
Well, we didn’t catch much for the first three hours, but I learned how to cast out decently far and got far too much enjoyment from reeling back in to really patiently catch fish. We’d found a tiny rock outcropping from which to fish, along the southeast perimeter of the small lake, and after not catching anything there for three hours we decided to move to the less picturesque beach where the locals were fishing.
I’d gone on a walk with my camera, whistling “You Are My Sunshine” and, morbidly, “Teddy Bear Picnic”, so that the bears knew where I was. I imagined the bears snugly watching television in their RVs, hearing my whistling and rolling their eyes, thinking, crap, we’ve got to go be BEARY now. After I misstepped and slipped in a tiny creek , though, and my already crapping-out hiking boots got even wetter, it was time to drag Stuart to the habitated part of the lake.
Actually, they called it a pond but it seemed a lot bigger than the ponds I’ve known, so I’m calling it a lake.
After another half-hour of Stuart’s fishing and my reading at the picnic tables, we decided to take a break and venture into town to find a bait-and-tackle shop and maybe a hot cocoa or two. The stop at Ed’s Variety Store yielded the following pleasant exchange:
“Where’s the nearest bait-and-tackle place that might be open today?”
“Oh, probably Walmart.”
So with a laugh and a nod in the direction of evil yet convenient megachains, we followed their directions to the as-unassuming-as-possible North Adams Walmart, where I got a hot cocoa from Dunkin Donuts and two camp chairs, while Stuart bought some heavier-duty bobs and weights and a mysterious spray meant to be like crack for trout.
I dropped him off at the lake and meandered back to the tent to make us two cups of warm tea in the empty Dunkin Donuts cups. See? Renewing resources, I thought. It was a little stressful lighting the camping stove by myself because I am crippled with fear by almost anything requiring small, volatile tanks of gas, and flames. So I held an oven mitt over my face while I lit it, because damn, yo, they can replace arm skin but I like my face, thanks. My neurotic precautions were unnecessary and I made two delightful cups of tea, got back into the truck which we’d resigned ourselves to finding incredibly convenient to have around, and drove to the lake.
Once there, I settled into the camp chair and three sweaters, while Stuart proceeded to catch sunfish after tiny, adorable sunfish, which he didn’t have the heart to kill and grill, so he slid them back into the water, somewhat cheerfully exasperated by the coy trout closer to the center of the lake, beyond the reach of his casting. Me, I even caught a sunfish, which means those little buggers were just gagging to get hooked.
When I started to whine about being cold, Stuart reluctantly gave in and we headed back to the tent to build a fire in the evening gloam and roast hot dogs, covering them in the packets of condiments I’d been stealing at every convenience store along the way. We told each other stories, asking questions about each others’ lives that didn’t know yet (“what’s the worst trouble you’ve ever gotten into?” “ever cheated in school?” “best camping story”, etc), and then sang our childhood songs while roasting marshmallows and polishing off the shiraz. My feet, which had been perpetually damp since we got there (trench foot, ahoy!) were toasted and warm and that may have been another pinnacle of the trip.
At bedtime, we put out the fire in the sprinkling rain, bagged our trash and put it neatly in the car, and snuggled down with books and flashlights until sleep stole over us both.

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