Accommodations

On my getaways over the last year or so, I've done some reflecting on where and how I sleep and eat when I'm traveling in pursuit of fish or game.

Twenty years ago, my approach was very basic: A three-man nylon tent, my usual kitchen cooking gear packed into tote bags, a twenty year old sleeping bag, a Coleman white gas stove, and a big plastic jug for water. How far I've come. Now, I have a four man nylon tent, dedicated camp cooking gear that I carry in a plastic tub, a different sleeping bag now almost twenty years old, a Coleman propane stove, and a big plastic jug for water.

The setup I had two decades ago was perfect for a new college graduate barely making 30K a year. It also befitted the poor graduate student I became a few years later, and, including the slight modifications mentioned above, served well for the visiting assistant professor I was shortly thereafter. During the years after my career swerved into the (rutted, roadblocked) academic lane I was aware that other men my age were beginning to earn enough money to guiltlessly book motel or cabin accommodations for their trips, and to eat in taverns, diners, and supper clubs every day they were up. These were the same guys who were driving Explorers and had an aresenal of a dozen or so fly rods, not to mention shirts designed specifically for fly fishing. (Some might have also been the guys with 30k in credit card debt, for all I know.) This didn't particularly bother me, but it did sometimes give the the impression that I was simply treading water in some ways.

These days our circumstances are slightly more comfortable. I have stayed in motels more often over the last few years, and can usually excuse a couple of restaurant meals over the course of a weekend (But I got off the river late! And gee, I can eat those canned goods for lunch at home next week!) But by and large, I still travel as I always have. And I'm in no rush to change that.

When I bunk at a motel, I miss sitting outside in the evening, maybe with a campfire, and lounging over coffee and whatever in the morning listening to the birds and watching chipmunks dashing from site to site. It's pretty tough to find a diner serving food as good, or as healthy, as what I can pull out of a can or boil bag from Trader Joe's, and if I get a notion to grill some burgers, they'll likely be better than any from the local tavern. Going to sleep in a tent with the forest sounds around me beats trying to sleep (emphasis on trying) in a saggy, creaky motel bed. (This is true even when it rains--see my last fishing report in May.)

The motels I stay at do tend to be older and not-so-well kept. Some smell of mold, smoke, dust, or things I can't identify and don't want to try. Some have showers I can barely fit into, with rust stains resembling graffitti tags. I may be plugging my ears against high-volume TV, revelry, or fornication in adjoining rooms. The power might go out or the heater might not start. And a "cheap" motel up north these days runs about $50 a night. I can remember staying at some of these places almost twenty years ago when they were $30 a night and in better repair. They might still be a good deal if they'd been maintained.

My continuing preference for camping solidified on a cast and blast trip to Ogemaw and Oscoda counties on the opening weekend of grouse season last fall. After ending my first day fishing the Au Sable below Mio, I headed toward a state forest campground to set up for the night but had second thoughts when the weather radio predicted overnight thunderstorms. Dark clouds blowing eastward gave this credence. I'd camped plenty in the rain before, but at that moment I thought, "why bother?" and headed to a motel in Mio which had seemed tolerable a few years ago. The price was ten dollars higher now, and the room had most of the shortcomings mentioned above, and more pronouncedly than on my last visit. In the morning I departed for the Rifle River Recreation Area, where I caught a few trout, missed a few grouse, and pitched my tent for the night--which would be a night I savored. Cool but clear, still, and scented with new-fallen leaves and distant campfires. When I lay down in my sleeping bag I felt soothed, almost welcomed. I often do my best sleeping on what some people curse as the "cold, hard ground."

My preference for minimalist camping has been put to the test during the last few days by plans for an upcoming trip. Next week I want to fish the hex hatch in the Grayling area, the river TBD after I get there and have a chance to look things over. Seeing as I have a lot of work on my plate this summer, I plan to make this a "work-play" trip, fishing nights and working during the days. To facilitate this, my initial plan was to get a room a motel I know is clean and comfortable for a few days. Expensive, but not impossibly so, and I would have electricity, wi-fi, a desk, and air conditioning. Not to mention a shower.

But then...I started to scheme how I could camp and still find a congenial work setting. The Grayling Public Library has electricity, wi-fi, desks, and air conditioning. For showers I could jump in the river, like I always do (as a supplement, of course, to washing my face and other presentable areas in camp). And then I over breakfasts I could gaze on the river while coffee steeped in my french press and granola softened to the perfect state of not-quite-mushiness; after fishing I could sip a beer at my campfire underneath the stars, then zip myself into the tent to lay down for the night with only a summer bedroll between me and the earth.

Sometimes, sitting at the picnic table on my state forest campground site, eating chili or or stew out of a tin bowl, I've asked myself if I would still be traveling like a boy scout when I was 60. The answer I have lately is, "God willing, yes."