“A little bit of civilization in the north woods, eh?” Doug had said with a teasing smile.
He hadn’t even responded.
“Too bad you didn’t bring a pair of slippers,” Doug said; he had brought a pair and was wearing them.
“Yeah.” Bob nodded. Of course you never told me to, he thought, but then I suppose I should have thought of it myself.
“How’s the blister?” Doug asked.
When Bob’d taken off his boots, he’d become aware of the blister on his right big toe. Doug had put a bandage on it, one with a hole in its middle so as not to irritate the blister itself. While he was putting it on, Bob asked him, only half jokingly, if there was anything about backpacking he didn’t know.
“Not much,” Doug replied and proceeded to inform him of ways of knowing direction while hiking.
Moss grew more thickly on the shadiest side of the tree, which would be the north side of trees that were fairly out in the open where sunlight could reach them all day.
Vegetation grew larger and more openly on northern slopes, smaller and more densely on southern slopes.
You could prevent yourself from traveling in circles by always keeping two trees lined up in front of you.
Then, at night, there was the north star…
“Enough,” Bob said, chuckling. “I’ll never remember any of it.”
“Well, you might need it someday,” Doug told him, “you never know.”
“I know,” Bob said. “This is my one and only backpacking hike.”
“Oh.” Doug nodded, an expression of remote acknowledgment on his face.
Bob tried to soften what he’d said by remarking that he could see how wonderful backpacking must be; he was just not inclined toward it, but Doug’s nod was no more than cursory.
Doug had been quiet for a while, staring into the fire, and Bob decided that he really must have offended him by so casually negating any possibility of him ever backpacking again. Doug didn’t have to do this; it had been and was a generous offer. He had to try to say something to lighten Doug’s mood.
“What made you pick this spot for a campsite?” he asked.
“Oh.” Doug shrugged. “A number of things.”
“Like what?”
“You’re not really interested,” Doug told him.
“Yes. I am,” Bob insisted. “I know I’m a dud as a hiker but I would like to know as much as I can for my novel.”
“Your novel,” Doug said. He looked at Bob without expression. “Is there a movie in it?” he asked.
Ah, Bob thought. The entrée to peace. “Probably,” he said, “there are four good male roles in it, two females.”
“Why not just do it as a screenplay then?” Doug asked.
“Oh, no,” Bob said. “I don’t want to put you through all this just for a screenplay. If it gets fucked up—assuming it gets made at all—there’s nothing left to show for it. But if there’s a novel…”
“Yeah.” Doug nodded, conceding. “I understand. That way, if it’s good, you make money from both the novel and the screenplay.”
“Right.” It wasn’t what he’d meant but he let it go. “And, when the time comes—as I hope it will—for the story to be filmed, I’ll certainly suggest you for one of the parts,” he said, playing his trump card.
“Well, I’d love to read the screenplay when you’ve written it,” Doug said, sounding considerably more cheerful now.
“Sure,” Bob said, nodding. “There is a good part for a villain, but he’s a man in his sixties.”
“That’s nothing,” Doug said quickly, “I played a father in Our Town and he had to be a man in his late fifties.”
“Oh.” Bob nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
Doug nodded back, smiling, then made a clucking sound. “So you need to know about what constitutes a good campsite.”
“Yes, I’d like to.”
“Okay.” Doug seemed to think about it for a few seconds, then began.
“Well, to start with,” he said, “it was no problem in the nineteenth century, even the early part of this century. You could cut brush for a campfire, cut logs, drink and wash in the water, have all the room in the world because there were so few campers. Now—” He made a hissing sound of disgust. “Thousands of people every year, screwing up everything.”
“I know.” Bob nodded glumly. “Ruining the environment.”
“I’m not talking about the environment,” Doug said, “I’m talking about camping and backpacking.”
“Oh.” Bob nodded. Should have known, he thought.
“Well, anyway, first of all, proximity to water,” Doug said, “that’s a must, absolutely basic, which is why we’re by a lake. Also the site should be on a gradual slope—well drained. That way, if it rains—”
“You think it’s going to rain?”
“No, no.” Doug waved his hand impatiently. “Just let me finish.”
“Sorry,” Bob apologized.
“If it does rain for any reason, you’re safe from runoff. A meadow would be a bad place to camp, for example. Also, there’s a nice breeze here. Keeps away the bugs.”
“My God, you think of everything,” Bob said.
“Better than being miserable,” Doug replied. “But shut up, I’m a long way from being done.”
“Sorry again,” Bob said, smiling.
“Surrounding trees to break up any wind that rises,” Doug continued.
“I apologize for interrupting,” Bob said, “but why are we so far away from the lake?”
“So there isn’t any chance of contaminating it,” Doug told him. “A lot of idiots camp right by the water and piss and crap all over, polluting what’s supposed to be fresh water.”
Bob nodded. “Got ya.” I should be taking notes, he thought. Was he going to be able to remember all this?
“Open ground,” Doug went on, “no vegetation, rotted trees.”
Bob wanted to ask about the rotted trees but decided to remain silent as Doug continued.
“Up a little high to avoid cold air, which flows downward. Slope facing east, protected from a west wind and getting the sun in the morning, which you’ll find makes it a lot easier to get up.”
“Douglas, I am damned impressed by your knowledge,” Bob broke in, thinking that Doug wouldn’t object to being interrupted in that way.
“Tricks of the trade, Bobby.” Doug grinned at him. I was right, Bob thought.
“Tent needs to be well staked, of course,” Doug said, “so the wind won’t blow it away. Use one with a dome top; gives with the wind. Double wall. Full-cover rain fly.”
I won’t even try to find out what that is, Bob thought.
“Outer shell waterproofed,” Doug continued. “Repels rain and prevents condensation from forming on the inner walls. Curved walls to prevent wind flap, a vestibule to keep rain from blowing in.”
“A vestibule?” Bob asked, visualizing the vestibule of an apartment house in Brooklyn he’d lived in when he was a boy.
“Need a little entryway,” Doug told him. “Wind and rain can blow in through a simple opening. As for the ground cloth, it should be exactly the size of the tent floor. If it sticks outside and it rains, the ground cloth can direct water under the tent. Did you put your iodine tablets in your water?”
“Yeah?” Bob more asked than said.
“Don’t forget to do that all the time,” Doug told him, “Giardia lamblia can kill.”
“Jesus, what’s that?”
“Parasite,” Doug answered. “Deadly little bastards. Use your iodine tablets always.”
“Ooh,” Bob said.
“What’s wrong?” Doug asked.
“The chicken à la king has done its job,” Bob answered, making a face.