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209 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1978
If you haven't met Pat McManus, let me do you the biggest favor ever: permit me to introduce you.
Patrick F. McManus died April 11, 2018, and I am in mourning; because he is, without exception, the funniest author I have ever read. I own several of his books, and I read them over and over; and there are parts that make me laugh. Every.Single.Time.
He writes as an outdoorsman. Camping (which he defines with the title of this book, as "a fine and pleasant misery"), hunting, fishing, hiking, etc. But you don't have to be outdoorsy to enjoy him. I'm not. You don't have to be male to enjoy him. A letter from a reader in one of them is from a woman who was reading him in bed, found she couldn't put the book down, and late in the night nearly shook her husband out of bed, she was laughing so hard.The man was a college English professor, for goodness' sake! He could put words together so beautifully it makes me cry. For instance, from "The Further Teachings of Rancid Crabtree":
The morning was one of those impeccable specimens found only in early July in the Rocky Mountains, particularly when it is only the twelfth July you have ever known in your life.Then he can make you cry laughing with crazy happenings I would dismiss as total nonsense, if I hadn't been a 12-year-old boy myself once.
He published about a dozen collection of his magazine columns (He was a contributing editor to Field & Stream and to Outdoor Life), starting with this one.
Here are a few moments:
"The Modified Stationary Panic" makes me hurt myself laughing every time. Pat teaches that frightening situations happen in the outdoors, notably when you realize you are lost:
I disagree sharply with most survival experts on what the lost person should do first. Most of them start out by saying some fool thing like, "The first rule of survival is DON'T PANIC!" Well, anyone who has ever been lost knows that kind of advice is complete nonsense. They might as well tell you,"DON'T SWEAT!" or "DON'T GET GOOSE BUMPS ALL OVER YOUR BODY!""Cigars, Logging Trucks, and Know-it-alls" maintains that the greatest threats to the health and safety of the outdoorsman is cigars, logging trucks, and know-it-alls. I dare you to read the column without agreeing with him. And without laughing your heart out.
"With thin ice what you have to do is just walk real fast so it don't have time to break under you. Now git on out there and let's see how fast you can walk. Faster! Faster! Dang it, didn't I tell you to walk fast?"His critique of taking the family to a national park, "But Where's the Park, Papa?" is dripping with bitterness, but in the hilarious way this fine gentleman, and only he, could do:
I can recall a time when tourists visiting national parks appeared to be folks indulging themselves in a bit of wholesome outdoor enjoyment. Now they seem to have a sense of desperation about them, like people who have fled their homes nine minutes before the arrival of Genghis Khan. Most of them no longer have any hope of seeing unspoiled wilderness, but they have heard rumors that the parks are places where the ground is still unpaved. Of course, if they want to see this ground they have to ask the crowd of people standing on it to jump into the air in unison.He makes his childhood unforgettable with such columns as "The Two-wheel ATV",
a balloon-tired monster born out of wedlock halfway between the junkyard and the secondhand store. Some local fiend had built it with his own three hands and sold it to my mother for about the price of a good milk cow.He offers his take on cartography in "How to Fish a Crick", defining the difference between a "creek" and a "crick":
First of all a creek has none of the raucous, vulgar, freewheeling character of a crick. If they were people, creeks would wear tuxedos and amuse themselves with the ballet, opera, and witty conversation; cricks would go around in their undershirts and amuse themselves with the Saturday-night fights, taverns, and humorous belching. Creeks would perspire and cricks, sweat. Creeks would smoke pipes; cricks, chew and spit.I could go on for quite a while. But it would be better for you to get the book. Get a lot of his books. You'll thank me.A case in point: One of the maps I possess of the State of Washington labels a small stream as S. Creek....What irks me is that they use the name S. Creek. One does not have to be a mentalist to know that the fellow who named the stream S. did not use the word creek. He used crick/i>. He probably saw right off that this stream was up was a crick and immediately started casting about for a suitable name. Then he discovered he didn't have a paddle with him. Aha!