We do not go to the green woods and crystal waters to rough it, we go to smooth it. We get it rough enough at home, in towns and cities. G.W. Sears
From Wikipedia: George Washington Sears (December 2, 1821 – May 1, 1890) was a sportswriter for Forest and Stream magazine in the 1880s and an early conservationist. His stories, appearing under the pen name, “Nessmuk” popularized self-guided canoe camping tours of the Adirondack lakes in open, lightweight solo canoes and what is today called ultralight camping.
And lived and died in my home state of PA. Neat guy.
And from his book of Poetry: Forrest Runes
By a Still-Hunter
THERE comes a month in the weary year,
A month of leisure and peaceful rest,
When the ripe leaves fall and the air is clear—
October, the brown, the crisp, the blest.
My lot has little enough of bliss;
I drag the days of the odd eleven—
Counting the time that shall lead to this,
The month that opens the hunter’s heaven.
And oh, for the mornings crisp and white,
With the sweep of the hounds upon the track:
The bark-roofed cabins, the camp-fire’s light,
The break of the deer and the rifle’s crack.
Do you call this trifling? I tell you, friend,
A life in the forest is past all praise.
Give me a dozen such months on end—
You may take my balance of years and days.
For brick and mortar breed filth and crime,
And a pulse of evil that throbs and beats.
And men are withered before their prime
By the curse paved in with the lanes and streets.
And lungs are poisoned, and shoulders bowed,
In the smothering reek of mill and mine;
And death stalks in on the struggling crowd—
But he shuns the shadow of oak and pine.
And of all to which the memory clings,
There is naught so dear as the sunny spots
Where our shanties stood by the crystal springs,
The vanished hounds and the lucky shots.