I am a typical married, middle-aged man.  I have a wife, two kids, a job.  With this comes a mortgage, college savings accounts, car payments, a trailer payment, and what seems like hundreds of bills for various items.  I have some household responsibilities.  I don’t get to the gym as often as I should and don’t eat the healthiest, most well-balanced diet.  Sleep is a luxury I don’t indulge in often enough.

I am a white-collar middle manager in a high-pressure industry.  This entails unpredictable hours, out-of-town travel and reporting to both upper management as well as clients.  While I am reasonably compensated for my efforts, the pressure is there and is, for the most part, unending and unrelenting.  It is not uncommon for someone to send me an email at midnight and have my response in their inbox at 12:00:30.

I can hear you right now.  “Hey, Camping Machine Guy, would you like a little cheese with that whine?  We all have our crosses to bear, and you have it better than most.  What’s your problem?”

I’ll pass on the cheese, thank you.  And I take exception to the Whine.  I’m simply stating the facts, and I’m acknowledging my good fortune to be healthy, employed and happily married.  I think there are more than a few men who, as they read this, nod their heads and think to themselves, “Yup, I can relate to that guy.”

Where I am going with this rant is simply this.  Every once in a while a guy like me has to step out of the grinder, catch his breath and get back to the core, fundamental elements that make a man a Man.  Every once in a while a Man has to ditch the white collar, get outdoors with other Men, and return (at least partway) to our primordial roots.  It’s time to get out with the boys, eat some red meat and get away from it all.

In this case, getting out with the boys means getting out with Chris and Tommy, my two sons.  It means getting out of the house, away from everything, and experiencing the outdoors as wild, uninhibited males.  Yes, it’s time to get The Camping Machine out on the open road.  To go exploring as men are want to do.  Throw rocks into streams.  Build a fire.  Kill some marshmallows, run them through with sticks and feast on their roasting carcasses. 

Live life on the edge.

An in a matter of days, soon to be a matter of hours, I will do exactly that.  We’ll saddle up The Camping Machine and head out for a weekend of camping, sans Mom.  She will get to stay home, have the house to herself, and do the things she likes to do without having the kids underfoot (not to mention her husband).  She is both excited for the time to spend as she pleases, as well as a bit sad to miss out on a trip out of town. 

The boys are very excited.  As recently as last year this might not have been possible.  They would have missed Mom too much.  But now it seems we have crosses that magical threshold where the boys not only CAN be away from Mom for 48 hours, they are looking forward to it. 

They are looking forward to some extended time with Dad, doing those manly-man things that Mom might frown on.  Like wiping a runny nose on a sleeve instead of a tissue.  Forgetting to eat vegetables with our cheeseburgers.  Staying up late enough to see all the stars in a sky not clouded with light pollution from the city.

Yes, it’s time to live life as men were meant to live it.

At least for 48 hours.

It’s Great to be the Camping Machine Guy!

Shh!  Don't tell anyone.  I'm about to share a secret with you.  But you have to promise to keep the secret, secret.

Got it?

Last Sunday we went on a hike.  Our destination was secret.  We didn't tell anyone.  But somehow, others found out.  I guess it was too much to expect we would be the only ones to know about the secret.

The hike began near the top of an alpine canyon.  This secret is especially sweet because the canyon opens up into a valley inhabited by nearly 800,000 people, 15 miles from a large metropolitan center.  Just a 10 minute drive from a major interstate, this canyon rises 4,500 feet to a beautiful alpine meadow.  It is there that the secret trail begins.

My wife and I, along with our sons Chris and Tommy, were very excited to see the secret.  "Is it Pirate Treasure?" Chris asked.  "Is it a secret fort?" asked Tommy.  I put my fingers to my lips and quietly said, "Shh.  I can't tell you.  It's a secret.  But soon you will see for yourself."

With that we set off, hiking sticks in hand, water bottles in our backpacks. 

Up the trail we went, crossing small, snow-fed streams and strolling through beautful, wildflower-filled meadows.  After about a half-mile we can to a rocky incline that required us to nagivate some switchbacks.  We passed a Ranger in his green uniform, who somehow knew we were aware of the secret.   He gave the boys a knowing smile and said, "You're almost there!"

On we went, with a spring in our step, knowing we were close to the secret.  We crested the top of the rock outcropping, followed a turn in the trail, and there it was.

The Secret.




The secret is a beautiful, crystal-clear alpine lake.  It cannot be seen unless you hike a mile up the trail, gaining over 500 feet in elevation.  Once there, you are treated to the view in this photo.

Why is this a secret?  After all, we saw over 100 people on our hike as we went up and down the trail.  People make this hike every day in the summer, and as I mentioned earlier the Valley is home to lots of folks, any of whom could venture up the canyon to discover the secret for themselves.

The secret of the secret is the name of the lake.

It's called Cecret Lake.

You can read the 'official' description of the hike at this link:

http://www.trails.com/tcatalog_trail.asp?trailid=HGS338-014

Mountain bikers can ride part of the way - you can read the descrition at this link: 

http://www.utah.com/bike/trails/albion_basin.htm

You'll note some call the trail the Secret Lake trail.  If you're a local, you know better. 

And that's the real secret.

Going on a hike to a special, secret place on a beautiful summer day?   Hard to calculate the value .

Hiking to a secret spot with your wife and two sons, and knowing the 'cecret' of the secret?

Priceless.

It's been over a year since Peter Jennings, the legendary, iconic News Anchor for ABC News, passed away.  Occasionally when I watch the evening network news, as I did tonight, it brings back the memory of the time I met him.

I’ve been out of the broadcast news business for over ten years now.  During the course of my eleven year career in that business I worked for three different television stations.  All three were ABC affiliates.  So for my entire career, Peter Jennings was the face, the voice, the de facto leader for the network news our broadcasts would follow.  His was the standard we aimed for. 

Early in my career, when I was young and gung-ho, I taped the music sounder that lead into the ABC network evening news and used that as the background music for the outgoing message on my telephone answering machine.

It was during the launch of the space shuttle Discovery that I met Peter Jennings.  You may recall the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger on January 26, 1986 which killed, among six other astronauts, Christa McAuliffe, a Concord, New Hampshire high school social studies teacher.  On September 28, 1988, Discovery was the first shuttle launched after the Challenger explosion.  You can imagine the press coverage that launch attracted.  Until Challenger exploded, shuttle launches had become almost routine, drawing little more than the normal NASA beat reporters.  But the Discovery launch drew news coverage from around the world, including the top people from ABC, CBS, NBC, as well as many local stations, including mine. 

I was selected by my station to cover the event, along with a reporter.  During one of our forays to the ABC News editing facility we happened to literally bump into Peter Jennings as we walked in the door.  He was every bit the dashing, charismatic person you might expect.  He was also very gracious, taking the time to shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and wish us good luck with our broadcast before moving on his way.  We were suitably impressed, and very inspired during the time we covered that story.

Peter Jennings was an extraordinary man. 

I, on the other hand, am an ordinary man.

I lead an ordinary, unremarkable life.  I’m a man of average height and weight, average looks.  These days, I work in a cubicle.  I drive a white vehicle.  I live in a suburb an ordinary city, surrounded by hundreds of tract homes just like mine.  I follow the same, basic routine virtually every working day, and follow a slightly different, yet predictable, routine on the weekends. 

Unlike some people who lead exciting, dramatic lives in big, exciting cities, surrounded by other similar of similar stature, I am one of the faceless masses in ‘flyover country.’  Working at my little job, raising my family, living out my entirely unremarkable life.

And now, sharing it with you here in the blogosphere, where I am one of hundreds of thousands of people sharing, in my case, unremarkable stories, no doubt forgotten the moment they are read by 10 or 12 people.

It all means very little to anyone.

Anyone, that is, except for three very remarkable and important people.

There is dignity, relevance, and yes, even importance in the role I play in the lives of Chris and Tommy.  In my very unremarkableness, my pedestrian ordinariness, I am in fact remarkable to them.  By virtue of doing the same, dull, predictable things every day, I am giving them exactly what they need to have their own opportunity to become remarkable, extraordinary people themselves.  By going to work, building a career (no matter how dull, boring and ordinary it is), providing food, shelter, health care and education, I’m giving them the foundation, the stability they need to grow up into secure, successful young men.

As far as MBW is concerned, I am important for the role I play as described above.  In her case, she probably settled for the ordinary when, in fact, she no doubt had many opportunities for something far above ordinary.  But now, having made her choice, for better or worse she seems to have grown used to this life.  If she feels somehow shortchanged by the decision she has made, she’s gracious enough not to discuss it with her friends when I’m within earshot.

Even so, she will grudgingly tell you that within my narrow, ordinary existence I bring something more to the table when it comes to our boys.  I recognize who and what I am, the role I have to play, and take pleasure and pride in the responsibility and job I have to do.  I’m a good dad.  Involved, engaged, committed.  I will never be the most exciting dad when it comes to career day at school.  I’ll never pull up to the soccer game in the flashiest car, have the funniest stories to tell, or be able to give my kids the coolest, most expensive graduation gifts.

But I will be there.  And I’ll bring everything I have.  If I’ve done my job right, that will be enough.

And if it isn’t, it won’t be for lack of effort.  When it comes to being ordinary, I’m not mailing it in.  I will be the best ordinary I can be. 

In deciding to write a blog I considered many different themes and names.  In the end, I decided to go with what I knew I could write about.  I don’t have a job that lends itself to great stories, slices of life that can captivate thousands of readers.  I don’t have the sense of humor that will produce daily hysterically funny entries that will get passed all over the Internet.  I don’t wade into the gladitorial mosh pit on weekends and describe it for everyone.  I don't write well enough to enthrall anyone with my prosaic prose.

I am just a Family Man with a Camping Machine.  I’m a man.  I have a family.  And I have a  Camping Machine.  That’s what I write about.  An ordinary man writing about ordinary things.  Could there be anything less, well, ordinary?

But I believe there is something to be said for doing all of the ordinary things.  Doing them well.  Bringing passion and commitment to the everyday, regular tasks.  Staying the course.  Being the rock, the plain, ordinary rock, that anchors those things that are most important.

It takes a whole bunch of ordinary for something to be recognized as extraordinary.  If you are one of those extraordinary people, then you have me to thank for making you so, if only by comparison.

But I’ll take what I have, thank you.  My little life, pedestrian as it is, suits me just fine.  There are those moments, and I’ve shared a few in this blog, when the very ordinariness of my family life is extraordinary to an exponential degree.  A hug from Chris.  A giggle from Tommy.  A knowing glance from my wife.

Each one, exceptionally ordinary.

Each one, exceptionally extraordinary.  And absolutely priceless.

This is a true story.

I know, because I was there.

It’s about 12:15 in the afternoon on a Tuesday in May 1988. A TV News Reporter and cameraman are sitting in the station-issued Chevy Blazer news vehicle in the drive-through lane of a fast food restaurant. One of the major chains- I can’t remember which one – aren’t they really all the same anyway? They’re ordering lunch – the typical meat-on-a-bun fare. A staple in the diet of a mid-market news crew that’s always on deadline. It has to be quick as they are on their way to yet another boring interview on another boring story.

A call comes in over the two-way radio (this was in the day before cellphones were standard issue). “Unit six, please respond.”

The cameraman picks up the radio. “Unit six, go.”

The guy on the news desk on the other end of the radio says, “Fam, we need you to head up to Belmont, we have a report of a vehicle hit by a train.”

“Roger that,” the cameraman says. “Do you have the coordinates?”

“Not yet, we’re working on it,” the desk responds. “Start rolling that way and we’ll get back to you.”

“10-4,” the cameraman replies. “You’ll have to reschedule our interview.”

“Got it,” says the desk.

The cameraman sets the radio handset in the cradle as they pull up to the window and pick up their lunch.

The reporter says, “I’d rather do this anyway than interview that city councilman.” A pause. “It’s a good thing we got something to eat first.”

The cameraman replies, “Belmont is about 45 minutes from here. If we spend 30 minutes at the scene and take 50 minutes to get back to the station, we’ll be fine for the early news.”

They head out toward Belmont. It’s mostly on the freeway, out of the city and into the rural area north of town. Mid-day there isn’t much traffic. It’s a nice spring day, a bit on the cool side but with the promise of summer just around the corner. Bright blue skies. A nice day for a drive – albeit toward what is probably a tragic incident.

Along the way the news desk calls back with two pieces of information. First are the coordinates – the crew now knows exactly where to go. The reporter pulls out the map (again, this is the pre-GPS era) and becomes the navigator for the cameraman.

The second piece of information is the outcome. “This one’s a fatal, guys,” the news desk says. “One victim.”

“Roger that,’ says the cameraman. The mood turns somber, but the sense of urgency increases. Now this will probably be the lead story on what had been, to this point, a light news day.

The crew drives on, exiting the freeway and turning toward Belmont, ending up on a two-lane blacktop through gently rolling, wooded hills. After 10 minutes or so, they crest a small rise and see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles ahead. As they get closer they can see the train crossing. The arms are down, lights still flashing. Two police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck are off on the shoulders of the road.

The cameraman parks the vehicle, goes around to the back and pulls out his gear. The reporter joins him, notepad in hand, and together they walk up to the crossing. Glancing about, the cameraman notices they are the first news crew to arrive.

They approach a police officer standing at the crossing. There are two tracks that cross the road here. There is not much traffic on this road, but occasionally a car will approach from one side or the other. The officer is here to wave the cars through, after looking down the tracks, as the crossing arms are locked down while the scene is investigated.

There’s no elegant way to ask. The reporter says to the officer, “What happened?

This is background only. The crew wants to get a sense of what’s going on before taping any interviews. The cameraman has set up his camera on the tripod and is getting some establishing shots of the scene as the reporter talks to the cop.

The officer says, “A vehicle was hit by a northbound train going between 55-60 miles an hour. There was one occupant in the vehicle, who is deceased.”

Hearing this, the reporter glances up the tracks to the north. The cameraman swings his camera up that way, resets his focus and zooms down the line. There’s not much to see, though, as the tracks begin to curve to the east and out of sight.

The officer continues, “The train had no warning. The vehicle pulled onto the tracks while the arms were down. Impact occurred before the engineer could hit the brakes.”

The cameraman is beginning to see, through the camera lens, debris along the side of the tracks. It’s difficult to tell exactly what he is seeing. Nothing he’s seen so far appears to be parts of the vehicle, but there is definitely ‘stuff’ along the tracks, beginning about 50 yards from the crossing and continuing until the track bends out of sight into the trees.

The reporter asks the cop, “How could the driver not see the train coming? The crossing arms were down at the time, weren’t they?”

The officer responded, “According to the train engineer, the arms were down. The vehicle was going around the arms when it was struck by the train.” He paused, the continued, “Apparently another train was on one of the tracks as the vehicle approached the crossing. The first train passed, but the crossing arms did not go up. The driver of the vehicle tried to go around the arms and was struck by a second train, coming from the other direction, on the second set of tracks.”

The cameraman picked up his camera and tripod and walked back to the spot where the vehicle would have parked as it waited for the train to go by. He panned his camera slowly, from what would have been the driver of the vehicle’s point of view. It became clear to the cameraman what the vehicle driver must have seen. The first train, heading south, passed on the near set of tracks. As it went by, it screened the driver’s view of a northbound train as it approached. He wouldn’t have heard it, assuming what he was hearing was the sound of the train that just passed.

The cameraman picked up his gear, walked around the crossing arm, and stood in the road between the two sets of tracks. Looking south, where the train would have been approaching, he tried to imagine the surprise, shock and horror the driver of the vehicle must have felt as he saw the train. He realized he was standing in precisely the spot where the train would have struck the vehicle.

The death zone.

This was the first time, he realized, the cameraman had stood in the exact spot where less than two hours ago another person had lost their life.

He was no stranger to death, of course. He had come to learn the old adage, ‘if it bleeds, it leads,’ is true in local TV News. He had seen his share of dead bodies, crime scenes where murders and grisly accidents had taken place. But this was the first time he stood on the exact piece of ground where someone took their last breath, saw their last sight, thought their last thought – in this case, most likely, “oh, sh--!!”

This cameraman was an introspective, contemplative sort. It was a sobering experience to stand here and record the images that would tell of the last moments of this person. At the same time, he had been around the block long enough to have developed a method of coping, of doing his job and not letting his emotions get in the way.

He finished getting his shots, picked up his gear, and made his way back to the reporter who was still talking to the cop. The two had been joined by the Lieutenant, who was supervising the scene. He agreed to speak on camera, giving the crew the requisite ‘sound bites’ that would be used to tell the story. He repeated the basic facts – a vehicle went around the railroad track crossing arms, which were functioning and in the down position during the accident. One train had passed the crossing, the crossing warning sign arms did not go up, the vehicle attempted to go around the crossing arms and was struck by a second train coming from the opposite direction. One vehicle occupant, killed on impact.

The reporter asked, “What type of vehicle was it?”

The police Lieutenant said, “I can’t release that information until the victims’ next of kin has been notified.”

After a couple of additional questions the interview was completed. The cameraman turned the camera off and asked the cop, “Can we hike down the track and get some footage of the scene?”

The officer replied, “You can go as far as you like, but the train is almost a mile away. This train was heavy and traveling at a high rate of speed. It takes a train like that a long time to stop, even when the brakes are locked up. It’s quite a hike to get to the engine.”

The cameraman and reporter conferred. “We don’t have time to get that footage and still make the early news,” the reporter said. “Let’s just go a little ways doen the line, get some debris footage and head back to the station.”

The officer said, “Be my guest, but watch where you step.”

The reporter said, “What do you mean?”

The officer said, “Off the record?”

“Sure,” said the reporter.

“The vehicle that was hit was a catering truck,” said the officer, “one of those ‘mobile lunch wagons’ that visit factories and manufacturing sites. It basically exploded on impact. There’s all kinds of lunch meat and food scattered down the line.”

He paused, took a breath and continued, “We aren’t sure we’ve found all of the body parts of the victim. We don’t have enough to make a positive ID. We assume there was only one victim because the company dispatcher told us who the driver was. We’re looking right now for something we can make a positive ID with – some dental work, a hand we can get a finger print from, something like that.”

“So, if you want to go down there and shoot some video, go ahead. But please don’t touch anything. And as I said, watch where you step.” He paused, and said, “and I wouldn’t do any snacking if you find something you think came from the truck.”

The cameraman and reporter look at each other.

“Let’s just get some shots from here and get going,” said the reporter to the cameraman. “Do you have enough footage?”

“I need a bit more. Give me a minute or two,” the cameraman replied.

The reporter went back to the news vehicle and got inside. The cameraman took his camera and shot for another two minutes or so, packed up and went back to the news vehicle. After stowing his gear, he got into the driver’s seat, started up, turned the car around and began to head back to the station.

They drove in silence for awhile – the reporter thinking about how to tell the story, the cameraman thinking about what he had seen and felt.

After a few minutes, the reporter reached into the lunch bag he got at the drive through earlier that day. He reached into the bag and pulled out his half eaten sandwich. He looked at it for a moment – the cameraman wondering if he would actually take a bite of the cold, soggy meal. Instead, the reporter looked up and said, “There’s a moral to this story, you know.”

“What’s that?” said the cameraman.

Taking a bite, through a mouthful of food, the reporter said, “It’s better to EAT the meat than BE the meat.”

Roger that!

It was 103 degrees Sunday afternoon at about 4:00 PM.  My wife suggested we get takeout and take the boys for a drive up the canyon for a picnic dinner.  "It will be cooler up there,"  she said.  "Maybe we can dip our feet in the creek and cool off."  For more, go to the Travels Page.

If you link to this site directly to this blog page, take a look at the Travels page to read about and see some photos of our recent trip to Ennis, Montana and see photos of some macho men doing some spectacular cliff jumping!

I spent 10 years as a television news photographer in a large city in the Rocky Mountain West.  It seemed like every summer holiday the Assignment Editor would send me out to a freeway overpass to get some video of people heading out of town.  Starting about 3PM on Friday ahead of a long weekend, or in this case whatever day of the week July 3 fell on, the freeway would fill up with people seeking to escape the city to go somewhere fun, somewhere cooler, somewhere, anywhere away from town.  I would dutifully shoot video of the exodus and it would run on the evening news, with the perfectly coiffed News Anchor commenting on how everyone was leaving town.  "Look." he would say, in his perfect baritone News Anchor Voice, "It must be a holiday weekend - everyone is leaving town!"  This would lead into about 15 seconds of happy talk with the perfectly-coiffed co-anchor, showing just a hint of her surgically enhanced cleavage, smiling and bemoaning the fact that everyone else was going out to have fun while they had to stay and report the news.

One afternoon, shooting the video of everyone leaving town, I happened to notice there were quite a few motor homes and camping trailers on the road.  I had never really paid much attention to RVs before.  My family never did much camping and we certainly never owned a trailer or motor home.  When I did notice one, it was usually because I was stuck behind it on a two-lane road, cursing silently, waiting for the opportunity to pass.  This time, as I watched a literal armada of RVs rolling down the freeway, I began to wonder where they were going, what adventures they were about to begin.  Were they going to a lake?  A camping site high up in the mountains?  Perhaps a quiet place in the red rock country to the south?  Or a special vista somewhere high on the Colorado Plateau?

Obviously I never knew where any of them went, but from that point on I paid more attention to these camping vehicles, seeing them in a new light.  No longer merely impediments to me getting where I wanted to go more quickly, they now represented a spirit of adventure.  Rather than sitting at home for a holiday weekend, the owners of these machines were explorers, people who do things, not people who sit around and dream of doing things.  At that point, I vowed one day that I would get one of those vehicles and have some adventures of my own.

During that moment I also realized just how many of the darn things there were out there.  Once I noticed them, it seemed everywhere I looked there was a motor home or camping trailer.  In my neighborhood it seemed every third or fourth home had some type of camping vehicle – a pop-up trailer, a 5^th wheel, a giant motorized condo on wheels.  How was it I never noticed this before?  It seemed there was this massive mobile army, hiding in plain site, conducting maneuvers every summer weekend and launching massive deployments every summer Holiday.

It took longer than I thought to join this force.  About 10 years, in fact.  A wife and two sons later, we bought a 27 foot travel trailer a couple of years ago.  We get out about 6 times a year, exploring the beautiful part of the country we live in.  This website will tell that story – our adventures as volunteers in the greatest mobile recreational force ever assembled.  I am a proud member of the RV Nation.