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Outside Magazine October 2004

Outside's Guilty Pleasures
Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer In the Tent
Why camping and alcohol are always a good mix

By Joel Achenbach

CAMPING CAN THEORETICALLY BE performed sober, but as far as I know, no one's tried it. For many of us, camping is essentially an elaborate drinking ritual. My own preference is red wine by the fire—white wine, backlit by flames, becomes indistinguishable from Gatorade. But canned beer is the archetypal camping beverage, something that, like the sleeping bag and the Sierra cup, falls under the heading of "essential gear."

Beer is particularly pleasant if it can be cooled in a tumbling stream and retrieved dramatically, with frigid mountain water dripping off it like you see in the commercials. My brother not only puts his beer in the stream but frequently goes over and checks it, the way some gardeners constantly fuss with their tomatoes. It's as if he's cultivating his brew.

Beer will get you through times of no civilized shelter better than civilized shelter will get you through times of no beer. The alcohol takes the edge off what otherwise is a physically uncomfortable experience, marred by bugs, snakes, rocky ground, bad food, unspeakably rank Porta-Potties, and nearby campers who want to come over and share their elaborate personal theories about the "real causes" of the War of 1812.

The big problem with drinking and camping—or is this the greatest glory?—is that it's difficult to judge your limit. The woods are innately disorienting, so you can't tell whether your stumbling gait is a result of topography or intoxication. You hear strange noises: Is that nature, or just the booze? When you're by the fire clutching a beezo or a good bottle of wine or some tequila—or perhaps all three—you sense that you're doing the right thing in the right place. My friend Angus says, "It's like drinking in a padded cell. You can't get in trouble."

In the summer of 1978, I was hitchhiking through the Smoky Mountains and nabbed a ride from a group of Army grunts on leave. I went along as they hiked five miles into the deepest woods, lugging a military-surplus cooler jammed with cheap beer on ice. That cooler probably weighed 200 pounds, and the endurance of those young soldiers as they marched up a winding trail, straining under the load, made me proud to be an American. Where do we find such men? For them, camping was a battle, and they'd brought plenty of ammo.

Yes, there are those who disapprove of such activity, who believe that the whole point of camping is to refresh our physical and spiritual selves, to feel fully alive and virtuous. And it's good to have one such person around—because somebody has to get up and make the coffee.

Next Page: Confessions of a teenage taxidermist

JOEL ACHENBACH is a Washington Post reporter. His most recent book is The Grand Idea (Simon & Schuster).

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