I've Been Busy

I know it’s been a month since I posted to this blog. There are a couple reasons for that.

One is a lack of inspiration. The original purpose of this blog was to document what it is like to retire to a rural North Georgia county after 37 years working as an attorney in crowded Pinellas County, Florida. I retired and moved to Fannin County in the fall of 2013. I’ve now lived here long enough that what was once unusual is now familiar. This is my new normal, and it’s the rest of the world that is strange and worthy of observation and comment.

The other reason I haven’t written in this blog is because I’ve been busier than hell with the organizations I’ve joined, the class I was taking, getting the garden prepared and planted, a camping trip with the men’s group from my church, a trip to Tallahassee to go fishing with my oldest son, writing columns for one of the local papers, playing bass for this little group I am in and a number of other things that have kept me hopping. If this keeps up I may have to retire from my retirement. Thankfully, it looks like things will start to slow down for the summer.

I’ve said before that one of the secrets of retirement is to stay busy and involved. I would like add a caveat to that: don’t get so busy that you can’t take time to smell the roses. I figure that if you’ve managed to navigate your way through life and work to reach retirement you’ve earned the right to do nothing every now and then.

As noted above, I recently went on the annual camping trip of the men’s group from my church. I am happy to report that I returned safely and in good health from the expedition.

Church group camping trips seem to be something of a tradition around here. Usually it’s the men or the youth groups who go on them. I don’t think the women do camping trips. At least that’s true for the church I go to. Our women go to places like Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge where they stay in nice places, eat at nice restaurants and visit local attractions. The men, on the other hand, choose to live in tents, sit around a smoky campfire looking at trees, and eat their own cooking. And we think we’re the smarter sex. Ha!

I suppose the purpose of such trips is fellowship and an opportunity to commune with nature. In the case of my church, which is Episcopal or more properly Anglican, it’s also a chance to drink craft beer and good whiskey, eat cholesterol-laden foods, swap stories while sitting around the campfire and do the manly things that men do when they get together in the woods. It’s all very Neanderthal in a quasi-urbane sort of way.

The men’s group at my church is composed of, shall we say, mature individuals. That’s a nice way of saying that we’re old retired guys. It is an interesting group of men. All of them have done something meaningful and accomplished in their lives and have had an abundance of interesting life experiences. As a result, most of them are experienced and proficient bull shitters.

As a side note to the ladies, bull shitting is a predominantly male trait that consists of swapping stories, tales and experiences. It is generally done while consuming alcoholic beverages, and it is mostly truthful though an occasional dramatic embellishment or exaggeration is allowed and, indeed, encouraged. It can be entertaining for the listeners but it can also grow tedious particularly after long hours of it or when the stories start repeating because short term memory is beginning to go. I think it is considered a part of the male bonding ritual by those who study such things. I imagine our primitive ancestors did much the same thing while squatting around the campfire after a hunt.

While experiencing the wonders of nature was one of the objects of the trip, this was not by any means an exercise in primitive camping. This group does not believe in roughing it. There was no sleeping on rocks and foraging for wild foods ala Euell Gibbons. Foraging for the foie gras and premium bourbon is more this group’s style.

Most of the men brought a pickup truck full of gear and supplies to ensure that the outdoor experience was as comfortable as possible. After everyone had unpacked and set up camp, the campsite resembled a Bedouin encampment complete with huge tents, cots, collapsible tables and chairs, multiple coolers with refreshments and other creature comforts. It would not surprise me if a couple of the larger tents had sofas and Persian rugs in them. All that was missing were palm trees, camels and a few pink flamingos in front of the tents.

The campground was located at the end of a long and winding road somewhere in North Carolina in the Nantahala National Forest. There was absolutely no cell phone reception. To get cell phone reception you had to leave the park, drive a mile down the road to a volunteer fire station and stand on the southwest corner of the porch facing north in a crouched position. At least I think those were the instructions.

For what it’s worth, "Nantahala" is a Cherokee word meaning "Land of the Noonday Sun." I have no idea why.

There was a concern the first few nights that bears and raccoons would get into our food so everyone was careful to put their coolers in their vehicles. After the first night I realized there was little chance predatory wildlife would venture anywhere near the camp. The grunts, moans, groans, snores, farts and other unearthly noises that emanated from a dozen mature men sleeping was frightening. A bear or a raccoon would have to possess a large pair of balls to invade that campsite.

The camping trip lasted from Tuesday to Friday. Four days is about the limit. By then all the stories had been told and retold, the food had been consumed, the alcohol was running low and we were getting tired of trekking up the hill to the bathroom to pee at night. The tents and camping gear were disassembled and packed away in our vehicles, and our caravan rolled out wagon train-style back to civilization, our own beds and convenient bathrooms.

A good time was had by all, fellowship had been reestablished and bonding had occurred. Boy, am I glad it only happens once a year.