Canvas, Cast Iron, and Kerosene: When Roughing It Was Rough

Lately I've revived my old interests in the aesthetics of the 1910s through 1930s. It began with dusting off the fedoras and going a little more retro with my outfit choices. Right now I'm wearing cotton twill slacks, a striped button-front shirt, and saddle oxfords, plus my brown fedora when outdoors, all which, conceivably, could have been found on a young man in the '20s or '30s. For a few weeks now, my wife and I have been fostering a young Cocker Spaniel until we can find a more suitable home for it. We got into a habit of taking her to the local park on weekends, and I would put on somewhat vintage-looking outfits, including my replica World War II cotton khaki uniform shirt, my Levis 501 dungarees, which I was happy to learn are very similar to those made 80 years ago, except for the red tab, and a military-style canvas shoulder bag. My next major purchase may be a replica of a World War I British army officer's musette bag and an M1910 canteen for future dog-walking expeditions. Our forays into civilized wilderness, combined with a vintage-inspired wardrobe and accessories, sparked a revived interest in something I'd contemplated long, long ago: camping out in an early 20th century fashion.

"Roughing it" has gotten soft these past few decades, in my opinion. Modern-day campers sleep in feather-weight tents made of slick nylon that pop up in seconds, wear unattractive clothing, keep fresh meats and dairy products in cold-storage boxes or small refrigerators powered by their vehicle's battery, and prepare freeze-dried gourmet meals stored in neat little foil packets just by adding water and heating on a shiny folding propane stove. Many campgrounds even offer electricity outlets, running water, and full restroom and shower facilities. This is what people call "roughing it?"

There was a time when truly hardy folks left what was then the modern hustle and bustle of city life, with its clattering trolley cars, talking picture shows, and jabbering radio programs, and headed out into the forest primeval for a weekend of getting back to basics. The Model A would be packed with nonperishable food, cast-iron pots, tin plates & cups, jugs of water, and maybe a banjo or ukulele for entertainment. The campers would arrive looking like overgrown boy scouts, men and women alike decked out in woolen breeches or possibly denim waist overalls, knee-high boots or ankle boots & puttees, sturdy shirts, and large felt hats. An assortment of canvas sheets and wooden poles became a tent, and a batch of chopped wood formed a campfire. Canned beans and salt-pork went into an iron pot for a hearty supper, and after the sun went down and the dishes were washed, everyone gathered around and sang along to the twanging banjo while passing around a flask of smuggled hooch. Perhaps if one of the campers was skilled in electronics, the group would tune in to Amos 'n' Andy on a radio hooked up to the Ford's electrical system. Upon retiring for the night, they would perhaps read a bit in their tents by the light of a kerosene lantern or perhaps an early flashlight. Come the morning, a shower was unnecessary; change your underdrawers if you feel the need. Time to return last night's supper to the earth? No restrooms here. Go dig a latrine behind a tree, like the bears in those Charmin commercials.

How grand 'twould be to arrive in my cavalry breeches and Montana peak hat, set up a canvas tent, light up a wood fire, and dump canned goods wrapped in replica 1920s labels into a cast-iron pot! I already wasted a good part of my Monday morning in the cubicle re-creating a period Campfire marshmallow label for a metal tin, and even found some high-resolution scans of vintage food packaging. Perhaps someday when I am exceedingly wealthy, I'll be unpacking everything from a fully restored Model T.