A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 

            In 1971, I outfitted and guided three wealthy Chicago men--the least affluent of which earned a quarter million a year--on a  five day canoe trip into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area of Minnesota.  I was told to provide the finest food, equipment and hospitality--whatever it took to ensure a good time. In return, I'd be well compensated for my services.

            For months I worked on assembling the menu.  Supper the first night would consist of Minnesota wild rice and mushrooms and the most expensive twelve ounce fillet mignon's I could find.  After that, I'd resort to the best dried foods money could buy.  I mail ordered freeze-dried pork chops, ice-cream, salisbury steak and hamburger.  I carried an assortment of the best cheeses and packed fresh garlic, onions, basil and olive oil.  Just wait till these guys sampled my linguini!  Each night before supper I'd lay out a small linen tablecloth on which I'd serve brandy in long-stemmed plastic glasses. For dessert there would be popcorn (Orville's finest!), fresh-baked pie and hot-buttered rum.  The food would be a knockout!

Dear Reader:

Here's how I became addicted to the wild outdoors:

I discovered the joys of camping at the age of 12 in a rustic Scout camp set deep in the Michigan woods. It was 1952, just before the dawn of nylon tents and synthetic clothes. Aluminum canoes were hot off the Grumman forms, though I’d never seen one. Deep down, I believed they’d never replace the glorious wood-ribbed Old Towns and Thompsons.

Like most kids my age, I had little money for outdoor gear. What I earned by picking pop bottles off the roadway went for a secondhand bike or a Randolph Scott movie. My camping outfit was carefully assembled from a ragtag assortment of military surplus and Salvation Army store items. I knew only one kid who had equipment that was new.

SNOWFLAKES ON THE SNAKE

by Cliff Jacobson

As winter sets in, Cliff’s “over 50” crew paddles 280 miles on the Snake River in Canada’s Yukon Territories.

Around midnight I awake to an icy breeze. Susie loves fresh air, and as is her habit, she has left her vestibule wide open. Chilling air pours in and I snug deep into my down sleeping bag. Minutes later, I hear the determined patter of rain. Oh no, not again! It is the fifth day of our canoe trip and it has rained every day. This time it is particularly nasty—icy and persistent, the kind that chills you to the bone. I shine my light on the large dial thermometer that hangs off our vestibule. Thirty-four degrees. Nothing new; it has been below freezing every night and in the forties during the day.