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.
July 2, 1973
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