I hate it when the marketers fool me.

A couple of years ago I pulled a Coleman propane camp stove off the shelf. It didn’t look like the big, green steel box with the red gas tank I had for decades. This one was sleek and light, and you attached the little tanks of propane fuel with no mess or fuss.

The box said: Easy to clean, removable nickel-chrome stove grate. Rust resistant, durable enamel-painted case. Runs up to one hour on single propane cylinder with both burners on high.

We took it camping a few times each summer. It heated stuff — sort of. Boiling a pot of water took a time commitment that was considerably longer than South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford put into his marriage.

After a small hail storm in the Black Hills, the little stove didn’t work quite the same. Eventually flames leaked out of various orifices and the stove was in the garbage.

Then there was the problem with the little 16-ounce steel propane tanks. When they’re empty you have the choice of either being a criminal or collecting a garage full of empty tanks. You can’t legally throw them in the trash. Even empty, they contain a little gas and compression that can explode when crushed in garbage trucks.

I had visions of my garbage man blown off the back of the truck as it drove down my street.

Coleman’s trying some mechanism that releases all the gas from the cans so they can be recycled — if you find a steel recycler to take them.

With 30 million of the little cans sold each year — 600,000 in Minnesota — the supposed convenience seems a poor tradeoff.

This spring I went to the basement and pulled out the old 1970s, two-burner Coleman stove for a camping trip. It’s still in great shape after countless uses. The heavy, red gas tank that attaches to the front has heft. The whole unit can be battered and dropped with little effect.

At the campground, I poured in the white gas, pumped up the pressure, lit it and put a big kettle of water on. It came to a roiling boil in a flash.

When I lifted the kettle off, the heavy cook-top grate was molten red. If I needed to shoe a horse I’d be able to pound out the shoe on top of the grill.

I knew nothing burns hotter than white gas — I learned that as a kid when I substituted lighter fluid with white gas in my potato cannon. I never dreamed a potato could fly over the roof of the big barn. My eyebrows grew back, arm healed and most of my hearing eventually returned.

The Coleman white gas stove was a pinnacle in American engineering and construction. In the rare event anything wears out, it can be easily replaced.

I felt the fool falling for that fresh, young, sleek vixen.