Monday, Jul. 02, 1973
Rebuttal from Mount Horrid
As resort campsites become ever more luxurious, lovers of the primitive still cling to what they consider genuine camping-backpacking through the woods, relying on trees, canvas and perhaps a lean-to for shelter. TIME's Boston correspondent Philip Taubman is one such purist. Last week he and his wife Felicity tromped the Long Trail in Vermont's Green Mountains, their enthusiasm only slightly dampened by a chilling rain and acres of mud. Herewith Taubman's defense of nature's way:
Luxury campsites! The very phrase is a non sequitur. As any Boy Scout knows, a campsite is a clearing in the woods where the greatest luxury is a running brook. The basic urge of the true camper is to escape from chlorine, color TV and asphalt. The climb up Mount Horrid is an excellent baptism. In six-tenths of a mile, the trail rises sharply 600 ft. We were out of breath halfway up, and I thought my heart was about to pound out of my chest. At 2,800 ft., the trail levels off on a rocky perch called Mount Horrid Cliff. The rock wall drops straight down 500 ft. When the sky cleared, we could see the Adirondacks 50 miles to the west and New Hampshire 40 miles to the east.
The view would have been splendid even through a car window, but it was far more satisfying because of the struggle up the mountain. In an electric-toothbrush civilization, it's nice to know that your muscles still work. When you sit down to rest and look at your backpack, you realize that everything you need for survival is right there. In the last few years, of course, some of the hardiness has been extracted even from backpacking. The awkward canvas knapsack has given way to nylon and aluminum contraptions. Miniature propane stoves and freeze-dried foods--from stroganoff to strawberry ice cream--can never be as romantic as honest campfires, canned beans and coffee you brew yourself.
Yet it is still hard work. When you pack your sleeping bag, foam mattress, tent, change of clothes, food and utensils, you end up carrying 40 lbs. or more. Lugging that load 15 miles a day in rough country is a guaranteed antidote to the dangers of the soft city life.
You quickly establish a relationship with the woods. All your senses are engaged. You stop to examine wildflowers and taste fresh cold water from a fast brook. You hear the forest's noises--birds, rain hitting the leaves, a squirrel or porcupine scurrying out of your path.
Soon you get the feeling--an illusion, really--that you don't really need the luxuries of civilization, or its arbitrary restraints. Once, backpacking along the John Muir Trail in California's Sierra Nevada, I left the path and bushwhacked across the high country for a day. It was a foolish idea. I was inexperienced, unsure of where I was heading, unprepared for bad weather. Climbing over huge boulders that ancient glaciers had dropped like pebbles along the timber line, I became terrified. What if I broke a leg or got lost? Miles of wilderness surrounded me. When I finally found a trail, I discovered with it a fantastic sense of achievement. One to one with the high country, I had held my own.
Such exhilaration must be difficult to come by in a $10,000 air-conditioned, carpeted "recreation vehicle." Yet such moments are within the reach of almost anyone. No special skill or experience is necessary. Well-marked hiking routes have been hacked out all over the country. Many are like the Long Trail, which runs 262 miles through Vermont from Canada to Massachusetts, where you can even find primitive shelters every six miles or so--just in case you forget how to raise your tent properly. An investment of $150 or so will buy all the gear you need. Clearly it is the last great vacation bargain.
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