My Honeymoon Trip Out West
(The following short story was written by my mother, Lolly Gilfix. All the photos, except the last, were taken by my father, Edward Gilfix, 70 years ago.)
It was Friday, July 13, 1951, and my roommate and I were discussing the merits of going to the graduate mixer that evening. I was exhausted from completing my graduate thesis on the ancient Near East and just wanted to go to the movies and relax. We tossed a coin, and much to my hesitancy, we went to the graduate mixer. There I met my prospective husband who had just completed his graduate studies in engineering. Despite the obvious disparities between the thinking of a liberal arts and an engineering person, we had a whirlwind courtship.
We married in February 1952. Later that year, Eddie proposed a belated honeymoon camping trip. “Let’s go out west and see the scenery,” he said. People said all kinds of silly things like “Let’s go to the moon.” So I said, “Sure.” I never dreamed that we would actually do this. I was shocked when Eddie came home the very next day with a double sleeping bag, an air mattress, a Coleman stove, an ice box from Sears, and a $4 folding table with two chairs. He had everything needed for three-weeks of camping. Because he was so carried away with enthusiasm, I agreed that it would be a nice trip.
Eddie asked if I could read a map. “Of course I can,” I replied. I had been reading maps centuries old for my Near Eastern Studies courses. We left Ann Arbor early one morning to drive to a campsite in upper Michigan. Within one hour, we sprang a leak in our new ice box which forced us to find a Sears in Lansing for a replacement. My map reading was not as good as I thought, because after many hours of driving, we ended up seeing a sign for Schuler’s, a famous restaurant in Ann Arbor. We had made a complete circle. I thought this was hysterical. Eddie did not. “He has no sense of humor,” I mused to myself. I suggested that we check into a “new” motel — our apartment — for the night, but Eddie insisted that we get to our campsite in northern Michigan. We arrived at an awful camping ground in the dark, ate an awful meal, then washed the dishes with hot corn water. I held the flashlight while Eddie set up the tent. I asked where to find the bathroom. Eddie said “you’re kidding!” then instructed me to the woods.
We climbed into our double sleeping bag, which was quite cozy, and read a delightful book together. It was Maria Chapdelaine. I thought that it was wonderful to read about camping without actually doing it.
In the morning while brushing my teeth, I met someone in uncomfortably close proximity. He invited us to Tennessee where his campground had electricity. Eddie thought going there was a great idea. I told him that I knew a great place with electricity — our apartment. We did not go to Tennessee.
One of our next campgrounds was on the shores of a Minnesota lake offering a statue of Paul Bunyan and gorgeous scenery. Eddie was ecstatic. We made camp on the shore. In the middle of the night, we had to move. We were too close to the water which had entered the tent. Eddie thought this was funny. I did not.
In the morning, I cooked bacon and eggs. I set our table with a tablecloth and flowers. Silverware was put properly next to the plates. I wanted to make a nice breakfast for us. Eddie asked in bewilderment, “Why did you set the table?” I could begin to see huge differences between us. He raved about the breakfast, though. I thought it was lousy. By the time the food went from the frying pan onto my plate, it had been refrigerated by the chill in the air.
On the sixth day of our trip, after burning my hand making spaghetti, I began to reassess my feelings. I had read Kafka’s Metamorphosis but never turned into a cockroach. I had also read Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa but never hunted mountain lions. So why did I have to do this?
When we reached Glacier National Park, Eddie parked for camping information, and I was struck by a sign posted by the Forest Service. I could swear it stated that 857 people had been mauled and 12 killed by bears that year. It definitely said that if a bear is sighted, to stay in the car, have no food with you, and remain silent. Apparently the tradition was to ignore this edict, get out of the cars, and surround a bear until it fled into the woods. If the bear charged, people ran back to their cars. Eddie told me not to worry. To add to my stress, it was hailing outside, and the temperature was 40 degrees. I asked him if he really intended for us to camp that night. “Of course,” he responded.
I decided that this trip was terrible and burst into tears. “The next time you go on a honeymoon, take your brother! I don’t want to be mauled. I hate this trip!” I cried. “What do you want me to do?” he asked with total perplexity. “Take me to a cheap motel with people, people, people! No bears! No bears! No bears! Take me to a dive! I want a hamburger, cigarette smoke, a jukebox, and people, people, people!”. Eddie listened to my tirade, drove us to a hotel, and saved our marriage.
We continued to visit Glacier National Park by car, followed by Banff, Lake Louise, Columbia Icefields, Badlands, and Yellowstone, staying at inexpensive cabins and motels, and eating at local diners.
We ended up seeing 37 bears, and each time I waited inside the locked car, afraid to look outside while Eddie followed tradition.
I did have guilty feelings about not camping outside until I met a camper in Banff whose tent had been ripped open by a bear at night. That helped assuage my guilt.
Eddie and I told our story together many times with amusement. We learned a lot about each other on that trip and ended up taking dozens more during six decades of marriage. Thankfully, the urge to go camping and bear spotting never returned.
