Not A Happy Camper

Here in the southwest, I have several friends who live out in the more rural desert areas of town. They’re the friends who enjoy owning a lot of property, raising chickens, and letting their kids dig around in the dirt. They love the rustic life. They live so far on the outskirts of town that they plan a weekly pilgrimage into the more populated areas of the city to do their shopping. They “come to town” for the day and then head back to their wide-open country with no traffic or street lights to impose on them. Pizza doesn’t get delivered to them. They have to drive to their mailbox. They’ve killed rattlesnakes in their house. I can’t make sense of it. I also have friends who live in a beautiful hilltop home with stunning views and custom everything, but their proximity to the mountainside leaves their home open to ringtail cats, bats, mice, swarms of moths, and the occasional mountain lion sighting. I don’t care how many gorgeous bathrooms are in that house, to me, they might as well be camping. It doesn’t matter how many times they explain their reasoning to me, I just don’t get it.

I wasn’t raised in what you might call an “outdoorsy” family. My parents didn’t (and still don’t) hike or engage in any other outdoor activities. Don’t get me wrong. They were still really fun parents, but they broadened our horizons with culture more than with nature. From a very young age, my brother and I were introduced to our parents’ eclectic tastes. We went to Broadway musicals, demolition derbies, Renaissance Faires, concerts, art museums, and Shakespeare theatre. We visited zoos, historical landmarks, national parks, major theme parks, and everywhere from Hawaii, the Las Vegas Strip to London. With such a diverse exposure, we developed a deep appreciation for a wide range of experiences. I think my brother and I would agree that aside from an understanding of who Jesus is, our broad taste and a large variety of experiences is the greatest thing our parents passed on to us. But we’re city folk, through and through.

So it may surprise you to know my parents took us camping on rare occasions. I think it was part of their goal to keep us diversified, even though it was a far cry from the fine dining and theatre they preferred. We certainly didn’t “rough it,” as we always positioned ourselves at a campground with fully functioning bathrooms and showers, and I don’t think we ever stayed more than three nights. I remember sharing a tent with my brother and collapsing into fits of laughter inside our sleeping bags. (I also remember the lack of ventilation in our tent when my brother passed gas.) I remember sitting around the campfire and my mom realizing the rubber soles of her shoes were melting from the heat. I remember camping by the ocean near Fort Bragg and waking up wet and freezing, then later losing my retainer in the rising tide. I remember taking turns blowing up the air mattress with my brother. (I don’t know if we didn’t own a pump or my dad just thought it was a good way to silence two brooding tweens.) I know my parents tried hard to make lasting memories for us. But I also know I didn’t go camping again (willingly) until I was 27.

The next time I found myself in a tent was in the middle of winter in the Australian outback. I was sixteen, a very long way from home, and consumed by a stomach bug. I was two weeks into a mission trip with a team of fellow teenagers, camping between site visits when nausea hit. I couldn’t get out of the tent fast enough and my stomach emptied all over my sleeping bag. I still remember the horrified screams of my tent mates. My sleeping bag and my sweatshirt couldn’t be recovered. I spent the rest of the night on the team bus, freezing and vomiting. When you’re sick and feeling wretched, ya know where you should be? Not camping, that’s where. In high school, on mission trips to Mexico, I at least slept in a bunk bed inside a large cinder block bunkhouse, but I brought my own sheets, mosquito net, and a hefty can of bug repellent to spray a nightly perimeter around my bed. I also never went on a trip again without Pepto Bismol.

When Zach and I were registering for wedding gifts, we decided to add camping supplies to our list. We had both camped occasionally with our families as kids and thought it sounded like a fun thing to do as a newlywed couple (my Australia incident aside). We received everything on our list but we took our time making plans. Two years later it occurred to us that neither of us knew much about camping, and neither of us found it all that appealing. We quite liked our cushy, indoor lifestyle. We looked at all our unopened camping gear in the garage and decided to at least try it, hoping we’d be pleasantly surprised. We blew the dust off the packages and packed up the car. By then we had Ruby, our very energetic and high-maintenance pitbull. (Ruby required SPF 30 on her face and belly as she was prone to sunburning, and exclusively ate seafood-based kibble due to her sensitive stomach.) We figured she’d love the opportunity to run around outside for a few days and get all her energy out, so we brought her along. We mentioned to our friends we were going camping and the reaction from each of them was the same. “Really? You two? No offense but we never really saw you as the camping type.” That should’ve been our first clue, but instead, we set out to prove them wrong.

We got settled at our campsite easily enough, but when we drove through with our dog we were told we couldn’t leave her unattended at our campsite and could only take her on the dog-friendly paths. That meant our plans to rent a boat and head out on the lake, hike, and lay on the beach, were all moot. Fantastic. For dinner, I squeezed fettuccine alfredo from a pouch and attempted to toast garlic bread over the fire. We gave it 2 stars. At night we lay in our tent, Ruby’s dog bed on the ground next to us, and we tried to sleep. Soon Ruby started to bark, and bark…. and bark. Every shadow, every rustle of leaves, every snapping twig outside our tent set her off. It hadn’t dawned on me until that moment that Ruby had never spent a single night outside. She was completely out of her element. She was used to a quiet bedroom with nothing but a ticking clock to lull her to sleep. The sounds of nature were foreign to her. Her barking was sporadic all through the night. Zach and I managed to sleep on and off between her bouts of hysteria, but soon the surrounding campers were yelling at us through the darkness to “Shut that dog up!” It was humiliating. At some point during the night, Zach rolled over and told me to unzip the inner layer of the tent window so Ruby could see out. He figured if she could see there was nothing to worry about, maybe she’d quit barking. I sleepily obliged. I’m not sure how much time passed before I woke up again, but I know that Ruby’s barking sounded very far off. I sat up and looked around. Ruby was gone. Panicked, I shook Zach awake. “Ruby’s not in the tent!” I kept shrieking. I flipped on the lantern and realized what I had done. In my semi-conscious state, I had unzipped both panels of the tent window, opening a very large hole, big enough for a pitbull to jump through.

Ruby’s barking could be heard but there was no telling just how far away she was. I called out her name in desperation, envisioning my 80-pound pit bull bounding through the campsites of total strangers and giving them the fright of their life. There would be no apology big enough. Miraculously, Ruby came running back to us when she heard her name. (That was a first.) She leaped back through the hole in the tent like it was a doggie door meant just for her. Her pupils were dilated and she was panting. She’d had the time of her life.

Morning came way too early. Zach and I sat in front of our campfire, staring blankly at the flames. The “shake and mix” pancake batter left a lot to be desired. All I could think about was Starbucks and a hot shower that didn’t require me to input quarters or wear flip-flops. We looked down at Ruby, sleeping like a log, recovering from her reign of terror the night before. Zach turned to me. “Annie. We’re cold. We’re dirty. Ruby isn’t meant for camping, and I’m not sure we are either.” We had three nights left of our reservation. It was so much work to pack up and set up the campsite. I dreaded the idea of undoing it all so soon. But I dreaded the idea of staying even more. I was already getting bug bites, the air mattress was loud and uncomfortable, and my hair smelled like a campfire. I desperately wanted to get back to my turf. My pride told me to stick it out, to show our friends (and ourselves) that we were campers. But in the end, my desire to be clean, fed, and well-rested won out. We packed up the car and headed home. That night we ordered takeout, took showers, laid in our clean bed, and, debated whether or not to tell our friends we’d only lasted one day in the outdoors.

It’s been eleven years and we haven’t been camping since. We sold all of our camping supplies in the belief that the term “happy camper” is an oxymoron. Comedian Jim Gaffigan has a bit about his similar distaste for camping. Like me, he finds the whole thing overrated. (You can watch it here, and know that it’s funny because it’s TRUE.) Friends told us we should try it again without the dog. As miserable as Ruby made things for us, I doubt we would’ve enjoyed it much more on our own. The truth is, I just really don’t enjoy the outdoors. I’ll always marvel at a beautiful sunset. I’ll always relish the sound of the ocean. I love watching the snowfall as long as I’m snuggled in front of a fire with a cup of cocoa in my hands. I enjoy a good picnic on a temperate spring day. I like breathing in deep the smells of pine trees and fresh grass, but I also get eaten alive by mosquitoes walking to the end of my driveway each summer. I detest the feeling of sand on anything other than my feet. I need no more than four hours in the mountains to feel as though I’ve gotten my fix. I simply do not feel like myself if I haven’t showered and shaved in the last 24 hours. If I have the option to sleep indoors in a temperature-controlled environment with clean sheets and a bathroom, why would I choose anything else? I’m a city girl. I enjoy a nice drive through the wilderness and wide-open spaces, so long as I know the road leads to civilization in the next one hundred miles or less.

I love my parents for their efforts. They opened my eyes to so many new and spectacular experiences. I still love musicals, Shakespeare, zoos, and traveling. I love trying new foods and learning the history of new places we visit. I appreciate all kinds of music (except for heavy metal, sorry not sorry). I love just about everything they introduced me to. But you know what I love most of all? Not camping.