On The Mark

I don’t camp anymore. When Betsy and I go somewhere, there just isn’t room on the moto for a tent and the other accoutrements. It also may have something to do with the fact that I’m 63 and spending time behind the “Nylon Curtain” doesn’t have nearly the appeal it once did. The last time I went moto camping was at the behest of my friend Doug, a professional photojournalist with a well-used Versys.

We met near his Virginia home, not far from “Mount Weather,” a government installation surrounded by more fences than all the feedlots in Texas. It was the least desirable combination of October, cold, and cloudy. Doug led me on a merry chase on roads as familiar to him as his hands. Southeast of Strasburg, we turned down a road that winds between the Little Creek and Green Mountains, the brilliant VA 678, Fort Valley Road. Our home for the night was the Elizabeth Furnace campground. The web site for the campground clearly states there is no firewood available, something we’d come to regret.

Owing to the season and the temperature, we had our pick of sites and we chose one not far from the creek and quickly set up our tents (there was no way either of us wanted any part of the other’s nocturnal noises).  I set up my stove while Doug pulled out a hunting knife with a great patina of use, several kinds of cheese, meat, and some crackers and created a delicious picnic-table charcuterie board. He produced a bottle of Green Spot Irish Whiskey, which went well with the cheese and crackers. Even though that’s technically a party foul at the campground, it wasn’t like there was anyone around to care…

We passed a comfortable afternoon. I brewed some tea and Doug fiddled with his Nikon. We talked about any number of things, just two old guys passing time and enjoying the fall day around the campsite. I foraged for wood and since cutting was strictly verboten and none was for sale, the local area had been fairly well stripped of deadfall. I did manage to find a few branches and, using my head, I scoured the other campsites and came up with some leftovers, plus a partial bottle of torch oil. The latter made starting the fire much easier.

As afternoon became evening, the sun quickly went behind Green Mountain and the temperature fell accordingly. We moved our camp chairs as close to the small fire as possible, sipped some more Green Spot, and talked some. I say some because the male of the species is perfectly capable of staring into the fire for hours without saying a word and still considers it successful companionship, sometimes even admirably so. After a while, I made us Jiffy Pop and we shared it with a beer or maybe another Green Spot – that point is a little hazy.

We turned in early, fueled by thoughts of a nice, warm down sleeping bag and the decided lack of fuel for the small, ineffective campfire we could afford with our meager wood supply. There was the usual bedtime banter between two guys, saying “Goodnight, John-Boy” and “Goodnight Mariellen” (lines stolen from “The Waltons” for you younger folk). Soon each of us was alone with his pre-sleep thoughts. There was no cell-phone bullshit, as Fort Valley was effectively shielded by the mountains at that point, just the sound of Passage Creek, the wind in the trees, and our inner voices.

Unsurprisingly, we awoke to a cold day. Doug shot a photo of me emerging from my tent, hair akimbo and sticking out from under a watch cap, glasses on, grinning. Nearby, an eagle perched in a treetop above the creek and was expertly photographed. We considered making a breakfast of instant oatmeal, but said, “Screw this: we’re going into TOWN.” We hastily broke camp and headed to a small diner Doug knew in Strasburg. We fortified ourselves with diner comfort food, then reluctantly went our separate ways.

I vividly remember this trip and chose to write about it because last fall, Doug was diagnosed with Stage 4, metastatic, esophageal cancer. He’s been undergoing chemo and while it appears to be working, there’s just no certainty for his future. For me, one thing is for damn sure: despite my 63 years, if he wants to go camping – in Fort Valley or anywhere – I will gladly go. We’ll sit by a meager fire and sip Green Spot Irish Whiskey and talk or just stare silently into the flames, living in the moment, because who knows how many moments any of us has left.