Fantasy Freaks and Gaming Geeks by Ethan Gilsdorf

Author:Ethan Gilsdorf [Gilsdorf, Ethan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: The Lyons Press
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

PRIVATE, MEDIEVAL-THEMED ISLANDS

First I noticed the smell of wood smoke. Then I saw it: the 500-acre field of Coopers Lake Campground in Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania. Within eyeshot of I-79 spread the peaks and valleys of thousands of tents. I had driven ten hours and ended up in the Middle Ages.

I exited the highway, registered at the “troll” check-in area, hung my Pennsic medallion around my neck (“Remember to wear your site medallion at all times”), and unloaded my gear at my household’s camp. I slipped on the brownish tunic, parked out of sight, and with a chirp chirp of my door lock, I left the twenty-first century behind.

On the long walk back to camp, I gawked at the period tents of every shape and size tucked among the trees and clogging the open fields. Each was pitched cheek by jowl, demarcated from the next by multicolored, decorated cloth partitions that reminded me of Christo’s Running Fence. Some households were bound by wooden stockade fences or faux stone walls. Signs labeled each encampment like a fiefdom—Norseland, Raven Spittle, Shadow-fire, Rogue’s Refuge, Bog End. An elaborate pirate ship might abut a Roman villa complete with archways and columns and a Gothic cathedral sculpted from foam. Like an amusement park, each nestled anachronistically beside the next. Each home to a fellowship of friends, a private, medieval-themed island.

“Hello the camp!” I called out. “It’s Ethan . . . I mean, Ethor—ain.” I was running out of “Eth-” variants for my alter egos.

My household, Camp Crook’d Cat, was comparatively mundane. A plain green army tent served as the common space, kitchen, and dining room. My fellow campers had arrived the previous week. I had come for War Week, when the field battles truly began. But my campmates weren’t fighters. They focused on taking classes at “Pennsic University” and cooking period food. The wood-fired, brick-and-mud oven they constructed each year was renowned. My first meal was an impressive spread of chicken, gingered carrots, salad, mead, and fresh baked bread. We sat at tables with linen tablecloths, and ate from wooden bowls with knives and spoons (no forks, which were OOP). My friend Ted back in Boston, rustic bread baker extraordinaire, would have loved the brick oven. I wished I had brought along my own posse.

Conversation at the camp was sedate. These were no raucous brutes or lofty knights. Order was paramount. A strict spreadsheet and chore book dictated who did what, when. The night I assisted with the cooking, a flowchart determined how and when to allocate resources like fire and prep time. But that’s what happens when engineers and programmers are in charge of the kitchen.

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