I Don't Camp

“I don’t camp.” - Jackie Verrilli

Such was my response to two pleading boys and one ardent grown man upon being asked to participate in an outdoorsy family activity.  For a whole weekend, mind you.

My family had thrown around the idea of going camping before, but I had flat-out refused.  As with anything that one doesn't understand, I feared camping like a five-year-old might fear learning to ride a bike. Only I could more creatively express my disinterest in the endeavor.  "No #^*&ing way!" was one of the less eloquent, but more powerful, statements I made.  I, of course, had visions of pitching a tent in hurricane-like conditions while fighting off swarms of mosquitoes, only to later have raccoons chewing holes in the tent, thereby allowing snakes to make their way into our sleeping bags.  Top that all with bears attacking us for our food, me contracting poison ivy halfway through a 30 mile hike in 100 degree weather and you have the molotov cocktail of buzz-kill I had going on in my head.  So when my husband suggested that we should go on a two-week-long, cross-country road trip that involved camping in state and national parks, I said, "Sounds great!  You guys enjoy yourselves!"  But, after several serious discussions about my husband's skills as an Eagle Scout, all the wonderful memories that we'd create with the kids, and the benefits of "getting outside your comfort zone", the boys were able to negotiate a trial run.  The terms of the contract were as follows: 1) we would camp for one night only, 2) no more than 90 minutes away in case a late night escape to civilization became necessary, 3) a rock solid agreement of packing up and leaving at the first sign of rain or critters, 4) mom does not pitch the tent with daddy as I knew that two chiefs on that job may eventually get the tent up, but may also involve engaging the services of a divorce lawyer, and, 5) coffee.  We settled on the Indiana Dunes.

Being the reluctant one on this trip, I more or less refused to help with the preparations other than making adamant and imploring (okay... and perhaps somewhat whining...) requests for various comforts of home.  For several days before the trip, my husband and two sons disappeared into the remote corners of the storage room in our basement and pulled out an inordinate amount of equipment and gear that I had never seen before.  This became a bit disconcerting when I asked what something was and got the answer, "That's to gut fish!"  By the time we were ready to pack up the car, I had learned about the virtues of a propane camping stove, the proper use of a pocket knife and it's various tools, the origami-like intricacies of folding a tent into a neat, car-friendly cube, and, of course, the proper order and relative proportions of fire-starting materials.  I was also informed, at some point, that we would not be taking a blow-dryer, and that my makeup case wouldn't fit anywhere.  A girl can try...

So one fine Saturday morning in August, 2011, we packed up the Carma-mobile and drove for an hour and a half to the next state over.  As we pulled into the campground, my heart started to pound and my palms started to sweat.  I started looking around for an escape route, and tried to actively develop a serious illness.  I had already scoped out the nearby hotels while we were on the road, so I was all set to bail, with or without the men.  And then it happened.  As we pulled all the stuff out of our over-stuffed microvan... as we started to pitch the tent (by putting the "A" pole in the "A" hole - that's a little tent-pitching humor we came up with)... as we started a fire and made the obligatory hot dogs and s'mores...  I started to have fun.  Yep.  I reluctantly had to admit that the scenery was beautiful (despite the nuclear power plant), the open air was intoxicating (the lovely bottle of wine that my husband had brought didn't hurt with this effect), and the teamwork we were experiencing was revelatory.  Even our seven-year-old was bustin' a hump and enjoying it.  The combination of activity, relaxation, and atmosphere, along with all of the "mommy can't camp" jokes that we were cracking, was starting to win me over.

So the whole camping thing got under my skin.  Even the creative problem-solving involved in opening a can of beans for dinner without a can opener was kinda fun.  There were a few  issues, however, that needed to be resolved with logic and strategic purchases if I was going to go on another camping trip. Two items would be added to the packing list; an air mattress and a  can opener.  In the morning, when we woke up, the air was crisp, the sun was shining gloriously, and the bacon and pancakes were delicious.  The only bummer was that my husband thought that a good solution for morning coffee was instant.  An honest mistake for an non-java-junkie.  I didn't even worry as the kids ran off into the woods in search of forest treasure like sticks to whittle and small frogs.  We did some hiking and biking and swimming during our one-day experiment, and by the time we were packed up and on the road to home it was everything I could do not to blurt out, "So when are we going to camp for a whole weekend?"  Instead, I did the face-saving thing and said, "Well... we survived!" and waited for the reaction.  My older son took the bait.  "Come on mom!  That was a total blast!  You know you had a good time!"  To which I replied, "Okay, okay... I had fun.  But if (note the careful choice of the word "if" over "when", and you should imagine the vocal emphasis on that word) if we go camping again, I want an air mattress, a real can opener, and brewed coffee."  And so the door had been opened to a more elaborate adventure.  Everyone rode home in the Carma-mobile with a smile and just a little bit of anticipation.  Yep.  The test drive worked.