These days my employees have more toys than I do, but in my seasonal days, we thought that kind of life was well beyond us. Not knowing when, if ever, we would even be able to apply for permanent jobs (most of these openings only allowed people who were already in the system to compete), our needs were minimal.
I hiked in jeans or old goretex running pants. I fit everything I owned in a small hatchback car. I didn't have a TV or a phone. For fun, I did things like lug a bottle of sherry up a mountain to an old lookout site to watch a meteor shower with friends (why sherry? I have no idea. It tasted awful). I bought my own crash and burn health insurance and it would never have occurred to me to complain about it. I had everything I needed, including an overseas trip now and then. I had few ties. I felt free.
One winter, I kept the heat at 55 degrees in a small apartment I rented. "It's cold in here!" visitors would say. "Here's a blanket," I replied. "OK," they answered, seasonals themselves. They got it.
Once I showed up for a mountaineering class obliviously toting my trusty orange pup tent of 1970s vintage, handed down to me from my parents. The instructor eyed it warily. "We'll just leave this one at base camp as an extra gear tent," he suggested kindly. I moved into a pricey dome tent with a Scottish guy named Andrew for the rest of the class (sorry, Andrew, wherever you might be).
|This is not me, but this is the same tent. Unfortunately I found this picture on a backpackers forum and they did not credit the photographer either.|