Fear Itself

by Brian Howard

I think it's called withdrawal, this thing we're going through.

A nation that's been transformed into political junkies — one that certainly knows more, collectively, about the electoral college than all previous Americans combined — suddenly finds itself without a fix. There's just not enough data to analyze in the Coleman/Franken recount or the Martin/Chambliss runoff, and honestly, just not nearly enough at stake now that the big win is in the bag. Meanwhile, watching the media try to pin the passing of Proposition 8 on blacks — it was actually passed by old people, black and white — has been depressing. I don't know if voting to take away a right that already exists is unprecedented, but it sure makes me feel kinda nauseated.

So last weekend I decided (OK, actually my friend Justin decided) that I needed to get off the grid, spend some time away from FiveThirtyEight, MSNBC and even my cell phone. So we threw a tent in the car and drove to Maryland's Catoctin Mountain Park, which is, for those who are not National Park buffs, the home of several camp sites and a little resort called Camp David.

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The park, a 1930s joint project of the Works Progress Administration and the Civilian Conservation Corps, is a little slice of rough-hewn New Deal heaven. It's just one testament to all those "socialist" programs Franklin Delano Roosevelt implemented in the face of his gigantic economic downturn. With its best fall colors in full display, it's not hard to imagine FDR, seeking a retreat less susceptible to U-boats (he had liked to get away on the presidential yacht), ordering a retreat built on this mountain and christening it "Shangri-La." (Eisenhower later renamed it David, after his grandson.)

Of course, all we saw of Camp David was the suspicious black signage indicating authorized personnel only. It is, I believe, about as much as George W. Bush ever saw of it, as he preferred weeks in Crawford to long weekends in Maryland. So much for escaping politics.

But all this FDR immersion got me thinking. The quaint Owens Creek camp site just down the park road provided all the woodsy isolation and starry skies you could ask for for $20. Despite having on-site facilities, a propane stove and, yes, some contraband bourbon, roughing it, even for a night, can realign your outlook. Getting back to nature is great. But here's how camping really adjusts your perspective.

Saturday night, 3 a.m., the campsite dead silent and I've just woken up because, well, nature was calling. After deliberating for an hour about venturing into the woods, alone, where, y'know, bears might be, I stumbled out of the tent and hurried toward the latrine.

Yes, I survived, and no, bears are not particularly common in non-western Maryland. But that primal fear of losing one's life at the teeth and claws of predators real or imaginary can all but wipe out your worries about undervotes and overvotes, a cratering economy or municipal budget cuts. It helps if you've watched Grizzly Man a dozen times. And I have.

Which isn't really a prescription for restoring calm to a panicky, over-stimulated populace. But it's a (perhaps ridiculous) reminder that fear — that thing FDR intoned was all we had to be afraid of — is powerful. It can distract, give you tunnel vision, blind you. It is, in many respects, the driving force behind the dire economic straits Americans find themselves in at present. It's also the inverse of hope, the thing so many of us fought so hard for this election cycle.

Primed

You may have noticed a week or four ago a glossy little magazine wearing the CP logo and the word "Divine" sprawled backward across the front. That's Primer, CP's annual guide to the city of Philadelphia. You can find the publication at hotels, coffee shops, bars, real estate agents and the like spanning the City Paper distribution area. If you're new to the area, grab one. If you're expecting company, pick one up and hold on to it.

(bhoward@citypaper.net)