In Praise of the Mancation

Whenever a society finds itself in the midst of great change, as we do now, it is important to take stock of the institutions that form its bedrock, giving it the solid foundation that has allowed it to build itself to great heights.

I would like to draw attention to a certain tradition that is at risk of being lost in today's dynamic environment since it is one of those customs that belongs only to men, and thus, its value has diminished over recent decades.

This practice has allowed men to realize their place within the larger society, to preserve the stories of the tribe and to achieve a level of consciousness not able to be attained during their hectic day-to-day lives.

What I am referring to here has gone by many names over the years, including boys' weekend, hunting trip and lately, "The Mancation." But I prefer the simpler and more inclusive moniker "the guys trip."

This institution was borne of the need that men have to recharge their masculinity by getting away from the lady folk for a few days. I am not talking any Robert Bly stuff that involves reciting epic poetry to the thump of frame drums, but an experience more primal that chimes with a louder ring of truth -- namely quaffing copious quantities of beer while chucking wood on the fire and insulting one another.

The Carson Graham gang

I have been going on a trip each year with a bunch of guys who I met at Carson Graham Secondary in 1980. Over the decades, we have experimented with various locations and modes of transport. Let's say that we have come a long way since the days of drinking warm beer until 3 a.m., sleeping rough, then getting heaved out of our campsite by a none-too-friendly parks facility operator, due to the cacophonous shenanigans of the previous evening. You could say that we have it down to a fine art when we are able to arrange a supply boat able to take our gear to a bay on a nice lake that we will have to ourselves, out of earshot from parks staff and other campers, for an entire long weekend.

While the trips of yore were organized in the smoke pit at Carson Graham, a diaspora amongst our high school alumni has necessitated a reliance upon online resources. It started with e-mail, but those threads quickly became as entangled as electronic cords left in a desk drawer. We started a Yahoo! Group to keep things organized. This allows us to make announcements and raise items for discussion such as the merits of India Pale Ale versus Pilsner. The website now functions not just as an organizing tool, but as a forum for everyone to stay in touch. Indeed, there are old friends who have joined our online group who have never been on a camping trip.

Pile into the van

Perhaps the most thrilling part of the guys' trip is the van ride there. On the appointed Thursday evening, as many as possible pile into the back of a 1979 Econoline van that has been painted flat black. Once inside, our middle-aged, responsible and sober selves dim like the lights in a movie house, and we are all adolescents again. Hitting the road, we have to hold steady in camp chairs and to balance atop coolers without spilling our beer as we lurch around corners, while The Clash and The Specials, mainstays of our school days, blare from a pair of $30 speakers.

Also taking up space in the van is the Styrofoam-lined coffin that keeps up to four kegs of beer chilled until we get to our campsite.

At one point in our early 30s, we discovered the merits of beer kegs over bottles. The beer tastes better, costs half as much and we only have to deal with four empties instead of four hundred. Storm Brewing on Commercial Drive provides the kegs, which come in four refreshing varieties.

The first night takes us to an old friend's house, which is just an hour or so from our destination (if I revealed anything more about the location beyond it being a lake, my friends would be forced to sink me to the bottom of it). Our host is now an acupuncturist who occasionally swaps treatments for home brewing services, allowing his fridge to be stocked so that we need not break open the kegs on the first night.

The next morning, the two least hungover go to purchase provisions. Meals usually involve burritos, spaghetti, burgers and fried spuds along with sandwich fixings, chips and salsa. We always buy a bag of apples, but no one ever eats them. Aside from breakfast cereal, everything has to go with beer.

Evolution of logistical support

Our first year on the lake, we just took canoes. It was then that the wisdom of a supply boat -- which we could load a metre above the gunwhales with coolers, kegs and a plethora of excess gear -- appeared to us as though delivered by a higher power. Now all we have to do is paddle our canoes across the lake with tents and bedding, allowing the motor boat to take the heavy stuff. This enables us to save our reserves for important tasks such as playing Frisbee in the woods and getting beer down our gullets.

Once we pull into camp, we must get the tents set up before the ETD, or estimated time of drunkenness, beyond which point, nothing as complex as, say, pegging out one's tent fly, is possible. Years of trial and error have brought us to our present system of beer delivery and refrigeration. This involves burying a keg in the ground inside of a garbage can packed with cube ice. Getting the first one in is a bit of work. Once it empties, we pull it out of its earthern icebox, grab a fresh keg from a nearby cool stream, slide it into what is now a garbage-can-contained shell of ice, top with a few shovelfuls of fresh cubes, and we are ready to go again for a day or so.

Our storied past

Once the fire is blazing, and every man has filled his mug with a frosty brew (the stainless thermos has become the preferred vessel as the beer stays cold even in direct sunlight), the stories will begin to emerge like precious blossoms that only bloom at night.

There is the one about Jimmy (all names have been changed to protect the guilty) and the cute punk rock girl he met at a party in 1983. When the two of them went out for some fresh air, he purchased a jar of Vaseline from a 7-11, then gooped it into his hair just to show her how punk he was. Soon after, he jumped into the chuck from a pier near the Seabus just so he could get naked in her presence. We have all heard it scores of times, but it appears to get fresher each year.

Then there is the story about Carlos who broke into a church while visiting family in Toronto. Months later he showed up at a Halloween party in an ill-fitting, crimson and ivory choir boy's outfit.

One of the more popular tales involves Norm, who, lacking cigarette papers, rolled up the last of his stash in some green toilet paper. After smoking this, he turned green, first to the horror, then the hysterics of those present.

These narratives improve over the years, their rough factualness polished to a truth through reworking. In each, we are reminded of what ridiculous people we once were. Without the trip, I am afraid that, individually, we would become more serious, that much more grown up and sure of ourselves.

Yes, we have come here to laugh at each other, and in doing so, put each man in his place. And that is a place from which no one can chuck us out.

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