Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Bittersweet Experience of Camping Out
I am a very level-headed person. Rarely do I make up my mind about something without experiencing it a couple of times. I do this so I can be certain that a first-time experience wasn’t atypical. Of course, this policy doesn’t apply to sampling certain vegetables or to getting together with the in-laws, but most often I am an open-minded fellow. Thus, I took my family camping twice this year. Based on my experiences I have come to two conclusions: 1) it takes a special type of person to enjoy camping and 2) I’m not that type of person.
For me, probably the most problematic aspect of camping is packing before and after the camping trip. Since we don’t have a trailer or a motor home (are camping in those really camping?), this chore necessitates a great deal of planning. I am not a planner. When loading the cars for camping, I’m of the mind set that if I can get everything in the vehicles and close the doors and trunks, I’m doing well. If something doesn’t fit, it’s probably not that important and doesn’t need to come any way. This reasoning isn’t always foolproof, though. On our first camping trip, my wife made me go back for the food, the second trip, for our kids.
I’ll admit that this system of packing isn’t foolproof. A sound planner would make sure the tents, which have to go up first at the campsite, are loaded into the car last. This would ensure that when the blankets, pillows, and clothes are unloaded they have a clean place to sit. When my wife pointed this out, I simply stated that camping isn’t about cleanliness. Of course this argument is easier to stand by when you don’t have pine needles in your sleeping bag.
Reloading the car at the completion of a camping trip seems like it would be an easier endeavor since the order of unloading at home wouldn’t matter. One would think so, but one would be mistaken. Even after disposing of three bags of garbage, two broken chairs, a rusted-through propane grill, and a disintegrating sleeping bag; eating enough food to stock a small convenience store; and using up three quarters of a cord of wood, the camping gear won’t fit back into the same space it came from. My theory is that the laws of physics cease to exist at campgrounds. They must need a vacation, too. As a result, on campouts, cars shrink and supplies grow. I know this sounds odd, but how else can one explain how tents and air mattresses that were expertly folded so they fit in these convenient carrying cases and boxes no longer fit after camping? And why won’t everything (minus all the garbage and used up items) fit into the same vehicles they were transported to the camp grounds in? If you have a better theory, I’m willing to listen; after all, I am a level-headed person.
Another aspect of camping that I failed to master on either trip is sleeping. For some reason, I cannot get a good night’s sleep in a tent. We have a couple of nighttime household noises which I have gotten used to, but evidently camping noises are a different story. The nights of our first campout of the year were marred by neighboring campers who like to stay up late, curious raccoons in search of food (or fighting over it), and a snoring mother-in-law two campsites away that almost drowned out the other nocturnal interruptions.
On our second camping trip, a month later, I slept no better. This trip was for a church campout. Considering the purpose for the event, one would think that I would’ve been calm and that the night would’ve been relaxing. Wrong! As I lay awake in the dead of night, shivering, I could clearly hear the furnace of the trailer in the next campsite switching on and off at regular intervals. In this state, all I could think was how hard it is to follow Jesus’ directive to love your neighbor when the lucky bum next door has a heater and I don’t. That and how hard would it be to turn off his propane in the dark without him noticing it until his body temperature approximated my own.
Of course the furnace wasn’t the only nocturnal noise that inhibited by sleep. At about one in the morning, the campground was subjected to the mournful moans of some miserable creature in distress that threatened to wake up everyone within a quarter mile. My wife finally told me to quit moaning. She said that I knew all along that it was going to get down to 40 degrees at night and that I should take it like a man. I discovered that one o’clock in the morning is not the best time to explain an amendment to my theory about the suspension of the laws of physics and the effects of this suspension on the male of the species. So much for a supportive spouse.
But my whining wasn’t the only whining that night. The people in the next campsite, the ones with the warm trailer, had a dog that slept outside. He had a problem with knowing where it was appropriate to use the restroom and where it wasn’t. Evidently their teenage son had a similar problem, because he, too, had to sleep outside. So, the two shared a tent. Sometime in the early morning hours, I began to hear a whining from next door–the type of whining that comes from a dog in desperate need of a tree. Based on the loving interaction I had witnessed between the boy and his dog earlier that day, I expected to hear the sound of a couple of zippers–one for the boy’s sleeping bag and one for the tent door–being undone and to see the shadows of two figures passing our tent. But I heard no zippers and saw no shadows. What I did hear, however, was a half an hour of the boy consoling his dog with these words: “Shut up, Stupid.”
At the conclusion of this second camping experience, I have decided that I would like to attempt camping again next year. Evidently, I remain under the influence of the aforementioned effects of the suspension of the laws of physics in campgrounds. Maybe the effects will wear off before next year.
For me, probably the most problematic aspect of camping is packing before and after the camping trip. Since we don’t have a trailer or a motor home (are camping in those really camping?), this chore necessitates a great deal of planning. I am not a planner. When loading the cars for camping, I’m of the mind set that if I can get everything in the vehicles and close the doors and trunks, I’m doing well. If something doesn’t fit, it’s probably not that important and doesn’t need to come any way. This reasoning isn’t always foolproof, though. On our first camping trip, my wife made me go back for the food, the second trip, for our kids.
I’ll admit that this system of packing isn’t foolproof. A sound planner would make sure the tents, which have to go up first at the campsite, are loaded into the car last. This would ensure that when the blankets, pillows, and clothes are unloaded they have a clean place to sit. When my wife pointed this out, I simply stated that camping isn’t about cleanliness. Of course this argument is easier to stand by when you don’t have pine needles in your sleeping bag.
Reloading the car at the completion of a camping trip seems like it would be an easier endeavor since the order of unloading at home wouldn’t matter. One would think so, but one would be mistaken. Even after disposing of three bags of garbage, two broken chairs, a rusted-through propane grill, and a disintegrating sleeping bag; eating enough food to stock a small convenience store; and using up three quarters of a cord of wood, the camping gear won’t fit back into the same space it came from. My theory is that the laws of physics cease to exist at campgrounds. They must need a vacation, too. As a result, on campouts, cars shrink and supplies grow. I know this sounds odd, but how else can one explain how tents and air mattresses that were expertly folded so they fit in these convenient carrying cases and boxes no longer fit after camping? And why won’t everything (minus all the garbage and used up items) fit into the same vehicles they were transported to the camp grounds in? If you have a better theory, I’m willing to listen; after all, I am a level-headed person.
Another aspect of camping that I failed to master on either trip is sleeping. For some reason, I cannot get a good night’s sleep in a tent. We have a couple of nighttime household noises which I have gotten used to, but evidently camping noises are a different story. The nights of our first campout of the year were marred by neighboring campers who like to stay up late, curious raccoons in search of food (or fighting over it), and a snoring mother-in-law two campsites away that almost drowned out the other nocturnal interruptions.
On our second camping trip, a month later, I slept no better. This trip was for a church campout. Considering the purpose for the event, one would think that I would’ve been calm and that the night would’ve been relaxing. Wrong! As I lay awake in the dead of night, shivering, I could clearly hear the furnace of the trailer in the next campsite switching on and off at regular intervals. In this state, all I could think was how hard it is to follow Jesus’ directive to love your neighbor when the lucky bum next door has a heater and I don’t. That and how hard would it be to turn off his propane in the dark without him noticing it until his body temperature approximated my own.
Of course the furnace wasn’t the only nocturnal noise that inhibited by sleep. At about one in the morning, the campground was subjected to the mournful moans of some miserable creature in distress that threatened to wake up everyone within a quarter mile. My wife finally told me to quit moaning. She said that I knew all along that it was going to get down to 40 degrees at night and that I should take it like a man. I discovered that one o’clock in the morning is not the best time to explain an amendment to my theory about the suspension of the laws of physics and the effects of this suspension on the male of the species. So much for a supportive spouse.
But my whining wasn’t the only whining that night. The people in the next campsite, the ones with the warm trailer, had a dog that slept outside. He had a problem with knowing where it was appropriate to use the restroom and where it wasn’t. Evidently their teenage son had a similar problem, because he, too, had to sleep outside. So, the two shared a tent. Sometime in the early morning hours, I began to hear a whining from next door–the type of whining that comes from a dog in desperate need of a tree. Based on the loving interaction I had witnessed between the boy and his dog earlier that day, I expected to hear the sound of a couple of zippers–one for the boy’s sleeping bag and one for the tent door–being undone and to see the shadows of two figures passing our tent. But I heard no zippers and saw no shadows. What I did hear, however, was a half an hour of the boy consoling his dog with these words: “Shut up, Stupid.”
At the conclusion of this second camping experience, I have decided that I would like to attempt camping again next year. Evidently, I remain under the influence of the aforementioned effects of the suspension of the laws of physics in campgrounds. Maybe the effects will wear off before next year.
Labels: bittersweet, camping, campout
Post a Comment