One of the little snippets of wisdom I’ve accumulated  over the years involves camping and covers a few things that you should do, along with a few other things you must NEVER do. Since cooler weather will soon arrive the mosquitoes will stand down and game will start to move.

The leaves will fall, although there may be no hunting seasons open at the time of your expedition, prudence demands you take a suitable varmint gun for self-defense against ill-tempered reptiles and things like wild hogs with piglets and any other scoundrels that might have had the misfortune to park their still to close to your fishin’ hole.

Well, camping is the epitome of survival (ain’t it?) and one man’s nectar may well be another man’s octane production.

Rules of Engagement:

1. Do not argue with or threaten any creature that is black with white stripes even though it may be similar in size to a house cat.

2. Never attempt to kindle a fire with airplane gas no matter how much it has rained, or how cold you think you are.

3. Never pay any attention to a TV weatherman unless you plan to camp in a nuclear missile silo.

That being said, be it known that there is camping and then there is camping. While the camp you engineered with a leaky tarp and a roll of duct tape, an onion, a can of hot beer and one can of VanCamps pork ‘n’ beans, might harbor one of the best memories of your miscreant youth, try to repeat it 40 years later and your significant others will want to check you into an Alzheimer’s Clinic or you will have to admit that you’ve been crazy as a Betsy bug ever since your mother first allowed you to go to the woods.

There have been shovels full of “caca del toro” written in psychiatrists’ journals concerning this type of trauma but they are mostly just that. Once you’ve been bitten by the camping bug, it seems like the older you get the more comfortable you want to be while you’re doing it. That makes about as much sense as a Quitman County political speech.

You can feel comfortable and secure at home. Shoot, it ain’t even got to be your own home. Higher levels of comfort could be had at a retirement home or even some county jails I’ve graced.

Naw, people, camping is what you do to divorce yourself from anything resembling common comfort so as to distance yourself from the nose-in-the-rut-type rat race of general society, way of thinking.

The most dangerous night I ever spent was not in snowstorms on the north slope. Nor was it in a very primitive camp during a thunderstorm in the Little Red River basin in northwest Arkansas. The most fearsome and nerve wracking outdoor embarrassment came straight out of Moccasin Bend and it didn’t involve tornadoes or dope growers, or even cold weather. There were no kerosene lanterns to malfunction and no tents to collapse, the only hog within miles was in a beer cooler, pressure sealed in a Primrose pressed ham container packaged and purchased days ago from Piggly Wiggly.

We were securely entrenched on that calm and starry night in a freshly moved trailer house, accumulated free of charge (due to city code changes concerning eyesores and fire traps within the city limits of Helena, Ark.) that had temporarily been crashed (oops I mean lodged) at Moccasin Bend. Even though it was full-sized mobile  home and had electric power provided by a WWII generator, it was considered a level one or “rough” camp because all the doors were missing.

It had, however, been outfitted with a few 60-watt light bulbs and a Walmart Box fan recently liberated during a dumpster dive. The particular relic in question performed perfectly, but the front grate or fan blade barrier was missing. Having dodged OSHA requirements for years and having absolute faith in Union Laboratory stickers, I pronounced it camp-worthy, plugged it in and cranked that 50-year-old war surplus generator up with a rope salvaged from a plow line. For about 15 minutes I celebrated a 60-watt, breezy success.

After awhile that McArthur Marvel power plant began to surge, and then to roar and as the final vestiges of the speed control relapsed into ferrous oxide (rust). The poor old Briggs engine, which was designed to operate at a sustained speed of 1,325 RPMs, accelerated to 6,400 rpm which caused the generator normally accustomed to producing 110 volts to, without warning, feed that tired, crippled box fan 2,000 volts.

Needless to say the dose was too rich for its diet. I had been closer to warzone than I wanted before and had been an unwilling participant in two plane crashes and knowing a little about faulty engine governors (and Democratic ones, too) I bailed out thru the missing front door opening (or jump site) to shut down the runaway engine before it distributed itself in small pieces all over the swamp.

By then my beloved ex, having similar premonitions but being in an in excusable state of public undress, quickly dug a fox hole under the bed and just in time too. During my quick actions in decommissioning the engine, the Walmart-issue, dumpster-dive-recovered cooling device (it could no longer be considered by any stretch of imagination to be a fan), had overcome whatever was supposed to keep a five-pound blade attached to its motor. Turning about 70 times faster than it was rated for, the blade ran amuck thru metal hanging lamp chains, a good roping saddle and a Jack Daniels liquor bar before sawing a nice round ventilation shaft thru the west wall and mowed part of the pond bank before coming to rest in the tire of a borrowed tractor.

Take care, it’s a dangerous business and it don’t come cheap,

Ricky Harpole