Ordeal by Camp Fire

FOR those who need, or think they need, an excuse for going on a camping trip, let me propose such an expedition as a substitute for a trial marriage. Let the prospective bride see how the prospective husband will stand up under the test of actual life as found in a week or so of camping. The experience is bound to be illuminating from the very beginning. Let her make a note of what he says when he discovers that she is taking along two suitcases, a small trunk, and a hatbox. His remarks will indicate his ability to compromise in an emergency. Let her observe the expression on his face when he gets out in the mud to attend to a tire that has gone down for the third time. She will then be able to predict his behavior when the baby demands breakfast at two in the morning. Let her watch his efforts to coax a blaze into a bunch of wet kindling, or as he tries to predict which way the smoke will drift. If he smiles wanly and says, ‘Dear me!’ let her beware! He is a man of no spirit, or else an accomplished poseur. If, however, when he picks up a hot stone by mistake, or when he drowns out the fire with the pot of coffee, he really rises to a certain eloquence, let her again beware! Self-control and philosophic calm are of the first importance in a husband.

On the other hand, let the young man consider carefully what she may have to say when she discovers what the stewpan has done to her white skirt. If she takes the incident calmly, let him beware! A repressed desire to throw a fit is as dangerous as the fit itself. Or she may be one of those creatures who take no care of their clothes. But if she lets herself rave over a minor matter like that, what will she do after marriage when a waiter spills the soup into her lap? It’s best not to take any risks whatever she does. Every little incident of camp life throws a brilliant light on the spiritual life of a man or woman. What he has to say about mosquitoes, what she has to say about ants — these are things that should be jotted down for future consideration. Straws, even when you find them floating on the soup, will show which way the wind blows, and how hard.

But it is not only in little incidents that the most intimate glimpses of character are revealed. You swing round a bend in the highway and suddenly find yourself face to face with the majestic peak of Mount Shasta towering in a rosy glow of sunset. If she says, ‘Is n’t it wonderful! It looks just like a heaping plate of strawberry ice cream!’ then you know at once that you have not met your true soul mate, and no wonder she weighs more than you do! Or again, you are clipping sweetly along, hoping to make Klamath Falls in time to camp by daylight, when she grabs your arm. ‘Oh, George! Do stop! I saw the cunningest little Mariposa lily by that rock back there!’ And then you back up a quarter of a mile and she gets out to examine a tomato can that has been left by some camper a week or so ago! And even if it had been a lily, this is no time of the day to stop and pick posies! This is a world where a man has to hustle, and the question is whether a woman who is always stopping you to look at tomato cans is going to be much of a help.

And then, who would have a man that can’t take his mind off the subject of eating? Here we are where we can see Mount Hood a hundred miles to the north and Mount Something-or-other a hundred miles to the south, with all the glittering snow peaks of the Cascades in between, and all he can think of is, How many cans of apricots did we bring, and will the bacon hold out till Sunday, and is that all the canned milk, and what about the bread? Here we stay in camp all morning mixing and frying pancakes! What he wants is a cook, not a wife!

On the other hand, what about the man who can’t catch a good mess of trout when that fellow with the Model T in the brown lean-to tent brings in the limit every day? It’s humiliating, to say the least. One wonders if he will be any more successful in bringing home the bacon after marriage. And one egg is all he wants for breakfast! And two pancakes! Does one want to spend a lifetime sitting opposite that sort of eater? One would have to resort to solitary eating between meals, and a solitary eater is as bad as a solitary drinker. Better not marry a man who is afraid to look a T-bone in the face!

And what a grand opportunity it is for the prospective parents-in-law to find out whether the young man is a willing performer or not. ‘We’ll have a good fire this evening. There’s a coolish wind off the lake.’ You take your axe. You saw a dead cedar on the way in. It was just fallen and the brittle branches will be easy to knock to pieces. You rather pride yourself on your skill with the axe. You give one or two strokes. How good the axe feels as it settles into the wood! ‘Here! Let me do it for you!’ He does it for you. Thoughtful young fellow!

You begin toasting some bread by the fire. It is a quiet evening and the smoke goes straight up. The fire is fine for toasting. The cedar branches have sunk down into glowing cubes. It is a question whether it is more fun to make toast or to eat it. The question is settled for you. He relieves you of the toasting fork and kindly makes your toast for you. Thoughtful young fellow!

Never mind: you want a drink. You know where the lovely little spring is that bubbles out from under the old laurel. You enjoy going for that cup of water. It is a restful little nook and you want to listen to the stream. You will just slip away and leave those young things sitting on the cedar log in the moonlight talking. Just as you are setting out he grabs the vessel from your hand and hastens to get the water for you. He is so thoughtful! What a wonderful husband he will make for the little girl!

All right — never mind. While he is looking after the dishes you will have a shave. Surely that is a private and intimate sort of occupation that one might be allowed to do for one’s self! But he is an expert at putting an edge on a razor; he can show you how to make a perfect lather in the hardest kind of water; he fixes the mirror in the tree just right for you. . . . If the daughter wants to marry a busy bee like that, all right! But you begin laying your plans for a solitary trip into Canada, where they have only mosquitoes.

Oh, camp life is the true test for congenial souls!