Day 3 1/2 (Camping Etiquette Revisited)

I went to the mountains because I wished to live [somewhat] deliberately for a couple days, to front only the essential facts of life [with the aid of a propane stove], and see if I could not learn what [the great outdoors] had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not slept within a reasonable proximity of bears, elk and other sundry creatures. I did not wish to live what was not life (living is so dear!); nor did I wish to camp near ingrates, unless it was quite necessary.

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, not battle for sleep while my drunken neighbors tore limbs from trees to build their fire; played drinking games; and spoke at hideous decibels until a park ranger resigned them to three hours of quiet.

My desperation grew while you chatted against the clock: first 10 p.m. and then 11. And then midnight, one, two... your 500 watt Coleman illuminated for us the contents of my tent; so much so, in fact, that I fancied you were that proverbial train whistle, interrupting Henry's morning swim.

And just as that sound cracked through the quiet — as if to further validate that infamous (and semi-hypocritical) hoeing of beans — you grew to symbolize the very reason I had gone to the woods in the first place.

But there was no escaping the uncivilized life now typical of modern society. For our final 10 hours at Rocky Mountain National Park, you were no Emersons. Rather, you were a mass of two men and three women huddled just 10 feet from our tent, sharing personal facts (and stripping articles of clothing) to the tune of "Truth or Dare" while children tried to sleep nearby.

Your lack of consideration infected us with a sort of desperation that was anything but quiet.

And though I have since returned to (un) civilized life, the lesson learned from my great experiment rings nevertheless true:

It is nearly impossible, these days, to simplify.

[Post backdated according to actual date of travel]