BOB KORNEGAY: It’s all in the bag

Here I am waxing nostalgic again. Sitting here tinkering with the zipper on my sleeping bag, I drift backward, back to the days when camping was a real adventure. Times have changed.

The sleeping bag on my lap right now is a wonder of modern technology. Constructed of lightweight synthetic fibers, it weighs about as much as a parakeet feather. With a smidgen of space-age insulation, it keeps my ample body warm or cool, depending on the weather. It is flame-retardant, vermin-proof, and washable. Repairs take maybe five minutes, tops. There is, however, one down side. It is boring.

Camping isn’t the adventure it once was and modern sleeping bags are largely at fault. Bear with me a few moments as I reflect.

My first “sleeping bag” was a woolen blankets, U.S. Army issue. I was told it came home from the war in Uncle Somebody’s footlocker. Which war, I never learned. I’m guessing either Civil or Spanish American. It was deemed by my father to be the perfect camper’s bedroll.

“It’ll be warm,” Dad said, failing to mention what he considered the blanket’s real positive attribute, that he’d procured the ancient relic at no cost to himself.

With that first sleeping bag I had two choices: roll up in it and die of heat stroke or sleep without it and be eaten alive by mosquitoes. I generally opted for the latter. A few nights playing the role of steamed weenie made my decision relatively simple. Besides, there’s little difference in mosquito itch and wool itch anyhow.

My next “sleeping bag” was a furniture pad. Dad hauled furniture for a living and, you guessed it, the pad didn’t cost him a dime.

“It’ll be warm,” he said.

The furniture pad was indeed warm, and surprisingly comfortable. What Dad failed to say, however, was, “It weighs 3000 pounds and will give you a hernia if you carry it without assistance.” And he might have added, “Don’t put it too close to the fire.” A blazing furniture pad on a hot night gives warmth a whole new meaning.

My third sleeping bag needs no quotation marks. It was a real one. I bought it from Cletus Monroe for 15 cents and a new Barlow knife. It didn’t look like much, but I figured it would do, especially once the mice were evicted.

“You made a good deal,” Dad said. “It’ll be warm.”

My old man was a genius. The bag was just as hot as that original woolen blanket and equally as cumbersome as the furniture pad. And there was the added attraction of a zipper, a zipper that stayed zipped throughout eternity. If you think being swathed in a flaming furniture pad is high adventure, you should experience self-cremation in an honest-to-goodness old-timey sleeping bag. The garter snake that slipped inside during the night was just as excited about it as I was.

Now, here I sit facing the prospect of sleeping in a bag that is 100 percent safe and comfortable. I’m assured I’ll not be consumed by campfire flames or terrified by uninvited bedfellows. I shall not perish from muscle strain or suffocation.

Safe, secure, and boring.

On the other hand, though, after a fella passes his 65th birthday, boredom ain’t always such a bad feature.

Email outdoors writer and columnist Bob Kornegay at [email protected].