OK, enough is enough. The absurd fusion of glamour and camping has embedded itself in the trendy hearts of hipster millennial faux-outdoors people worldwide. Glamping is dismantling the soul of dirtbaggery.
Glamping? There’s no sleeping bags or coolers or two-burner stoves. No skis or kayaks or bikes, unless of course it’s an all white fixie with an Italian leather seat and glow-in-the-dark rims. No wood to gather, no indiscernible odors, no dirt, and no fun.
It’s time to revive the practice of overstuffing the car with four-season adventure tools to go skiing, boating, biking, running, hiking, climbing, rollerblading, ice skating, hula hooping, and everything-ing. We must crush the Glampers under the magnificent weight of gear bulging from our Outbacks and Tacomas. It’s time, my fellow dirtbags, to go Cramping.
How do I cramp, you ask? It’s very easy, friend. Step one: gather all outdoor equipment you use to get extreme. Step two: shove pile of gear into car. Step three: drive to location, get radical, and sleep inside your vehicle, on top of or next to aforementioned pile of awesomeness (bonus points for kicking over the espresso maker of anyone you see carrying a Polaroid camera and wearing a neckerchief).
‘Cramping’ Defined
My current Cramping set-up? Scarpa’s Freedom RS boots, LINE’s Sir Francis Bacon skis with Dynafit Radical 2.0 bindings, my Lotus Designs PFD and Shred Ready helmet balanced neatly atop my cooler and two clear Rubbermaid bins that hold my kitchen gear, dry food, and tools. Note, there is no mention of a portable steamer or accent lighting. I keep my street-clothes duffel bag, my outerwear and layers dry bag, backcountry skiing pack, and miscellaneous gear on top of my perma-unrolled paco pad. Books, sneakers, and flip-flops are shoved under the seats next to my empty plastic bottle, hand trowel, and roll of TP.
I suggest digging your cathole by the entrance of any Aztec print canvas safari tent or luxury yurt with French doors that you encounter on your adventure.
But beware, my friend. Cramping is a stinky endeavor. And while you don’t want to smell like the homemade potpourri of an aloof 20-something from Brooklyn, a Cramping adventure can be cut short by a car that smells like a fart box.
If your rig is to be your mobile gear closet as well as your bedroom, kitchen, den, library, and office, you’ll need to cut the stank of boots, polypro funk, and that one forgotten ham sandwich. The dollar car-wash air freshener works alright. An aerosol can of Ozium works a little better, if you like remembering the smell of your college dorm room. Sneaker Balls (yes, really its name) work best. Drop them in your boot liners or the center console to freshen up post-adventure odor or post-Zatarain’s jambalaya booty fumes.
Smelling like campfire is great, but find the happy medium. If you try to fight the vanilla-scented Glampers with body odor you’ll just end up looking like a crazy homeless person.
Manicured ‘Glitter Beards’ Must Die
Let’s get something straight. Glamping is for manicured glitter beard, asymmetrical hairdo neo-greasers that hike in skinny jeans, for people who write with an ostrich feather while wearing a monocle and sipping nitro coffee out of a gourd cup. It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd. It must stop.
Dirt under your fingernails is a good thing. Leather boots worn on the trail makes sense. Folgers from a percolator made in the shadows of the mountains or amongst swaying aspens tastes much better than gluten free, home-roasted, French pressed, organic farm-to-table coffee made in a million dollar tree house.
Take arms against these perfumed Glampers. Stuff the back of your rig with more gear than makes sense and sleep – sweaty, dirty, and happy – right next to it all. Get cramped and live the Cramping life. I beg of you, friends.
