Meditations on Camping

Camping. It’s an experience that most people either love or hate, with very few in between.

While primitive (read: no facilities) style camping setups boast fairly certain isolation and a guaranteed reprieve from society, vacationing at a campground – especially on Labor Day Weekend – is, well...A little bit different.

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My mom and I, along with our dog, a Beagle / Setter mix named Lucy, pulled up to the rickety campground office to check in at around one in the afternoon.

The excitement immediately began to pool in my stomach. “It’s exactly how I remember it!” I exclaimed, gleefully.

Indeed, the combination general store / check-in rendezvous had not changed much in the more than 15 years since we had last been there. The red screen door still creaked with the entrance and departure of each camper. The canoes (along with a kayak – a new arrival) were still propped up against the woodshed, its open front revealing neat stacks of split firewood piled to the roof. The lawn was still festooned with the wooden cutout of a fat lady bending over, her bloomers and striped socks showing. Yes, everything was comfortably in position.

As the car tires rolled slowly over the gravel path that wove down to our campsite, all the good memories made during my childhood summers came flooding back:

Walking to the in-ground pool, past singlewide trailers decked out with plastic pinwheels, Coleman portable lanterns and a myriad of colorful whirligigs. Smelling the scent of many campfires, curling together into a giant hazy dragon, while we bobbed around in the creek beneath the moonlight.

There was a lot to love about this place, and I could recall every rose-colored detail.

However, it all came to a screeching halt (along with the Toyota Corolla) as a perturbed-looking individual in black wraparound sunglasses flagged us down on the road.

“Jesus...Here we go,” my mom said through clenched teeth, rolling down her window as the shades-clad man approached.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said with an air of authority and a garbled-sounding Southern accent. I warily eyed his NWO t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, as well as his khaki cargo shorts.

He continued. “You aware the speed limit here is 5 miles per hour?”

My mom nodded impatiently. “I thought I was going 5 miles per hour.”

“It was at least 8 to 10,” he retorted, removing a pack of Marlboro Reds from his shirt’s chest pocket.

My mother tapped her nails against the steering wheel, irritated, and said nothing.

“Well, just slow it down...Lotsa kids here, you know” he drawled, smacking the cigarette box against his open palm. Mom rolled up the window, rolling her eyes.

The car began to creep back down the road. “I’m putting on the cruise control,” she said, slamming the lever down on the side of her steering wheel. I glanced at the odometer, which read 5 miles per hour.

After a couple of minutes, I spotted my aunt’s red Chevy Colorado parked next to a picnic table. I rolled the window down and yelled to her, waving. She waved back, but became distracted by a sound across the field from where we were, turning in its direction. I whipped my own head around to see what the commotion was.

On the other side of the road, two chubby men and a saggy woman lay side by side in lounge chairs, staring us down. They all wore cowboy hats and were holding what appeared to be Budweiser cans. They were gesticulating wildly, palms facing the ground, moving in an up and down motion.

I looked at my mom quizzically and she rolled the car window down again.

“SLOW DOWN!” they bellowed in unison.

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As we pulled alongside my aunt’s truck and I opened the door, my heart sank. Our site was surrounded on all sides – not just by other campers, but by the competing music from their respective boom boxes, too.

The natural noises of cicadas, songbirds and a burbling creek I had looked forward to were all but smothered by a crude medley of Kid Rock’s “Bawitdaba” and “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”. I felt the blood rush to my face as I stifled a loud grumble of anger.

My cousin knelt on the ground, snapping twigs for kindling. She stood up, greeting me a hug and smile. I removed the tent from its bag and got to work shoving the support poles through the nylon fabric.

Ok, let’s not start things off on the wrong foot, I mentally reasoned with myself.

Halfway done raising the tent and feeling accomplished, I started to chat with my family about work and life. The first few notes of “Free Bird” wafted over from the campsite next to us, and I relaxed.

The purveyors of “Free Bird” whooped in celebration of Southern Rock. It was a group of about 10 men in their early 20s along with two or three girls of the same age.

“And this biiiiiiird you cannot CHAAAANGE!” they howled, pointing their slanted beer bottles at the sky.

“Nice!” my aunt laughed. “Yeah, I could get down with some Skynyrd right now,” I chuckled good-naturedly. “And anything is better than Kid Rock and Kenny Chesney!”

But the radio went silent. Then, after a few seconds, the same song started – from the beginning. Our inebriated neighbors cheered again with zeal, as if they hadn’t heard the tune in years. My cousin and I looked at each other in alarm...Alarm that was well warranted.

Our Labor Day Nature Extravaganza was kicked off by no fewer than 10 renderings of “Free Bird”. However, it seemed that the bird in question might have had Alzheimer’s, as only the first minute or so of the ditty was “free” to play until it was mercilessly snatched back into its cage, only to start anew.

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When I awoke the next morning my cousin’s sleeping bag was already empty, but I could hear the faint stirrings of someone outside cracking twigs and stoking the fire.

A shadow approached the tent and unzipped it. She stumbled in, breathless.

“Good morning,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how amazing the bathroom was when I woke up,” she said, excitedly. I rubbed my eyes and looked at her quizzically.

“There’s an enormous Puerto Rican family camping right next to the ladies’ room and most of them were in there when I washed up this morning,” she explained.

“I think they’re all from the Bronx. One lady who was wearing Pink Panther PJ pants and sounded just like Rosie Perez. She was brushing her teeth, telling me how it was her first time camping.

She was like, ‘So at 2 AM yesterday, I was goin’ to fill up my water bottle at that spout thingie down the road, and I’m like, kinda creeped out, cause it’s real dark ‘n shit, everyone’s asleep, an’ this crazy fuckin’ white guy comes barreling down the hill on his bike, right past me.

I’m like thinkin’ to myself, Oh shit, this guy’s gonna rape me right here, middle of the night, no one even gonna know. So I get freaked out, right? and I’m screamin’, “Yo, don’ take my koochie!”

He keeps peddling, he don’t slow down. He don’t even look at me.

Then I’m like...I don’t know, kinda insulted and shit, right?  I mean I looked good as hell last night. So I yell after him and I’m like, ‘What...You ain’t interested?!’”

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I emerged from the tent into a pleasantly brisk, sunny morning. There was a moment of peace, and then I heard grunting and groaning from the adjoining site (the “Free Birds”).

The lid of a plastic cooler opened and I heard someone fishing around the ice inside. A can tab cracked open. “It’s Miller Time!” declared one of the 20-something men. His voice sounded like a cross between an infomercial host and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Walking down to the public bathroom, I surveyed the Saturday morning scene. It was 9AM, and no fewer than 12 dogs are barking / braying in unison. It seemed that every camper decided to bring at least one canine companion along for the trip.

I peered into the pavilion adjoining the swimming pool (where I actually learned to swim more than two decades ago). The myriad of familiar arcade games were still blinking bright colors, beeping their electronic greetings: Ms. Packman, F-1 Racer, and my personal favorite: Buck Hunter.

The sound of wet slaps, belabored grunts and sneakers scuffling on the ground drew my attention. Several rotund individuals were hanging out at the tetherball pole, clad in Slipknot / Insane Clown Posse t-shirts, hard at work: they were covered in sweat, hair askew and plastered to their foreheads.

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My family members and I agreed that the uncharacteristically fantastic weather warrants a hike. We plodded up a short hill, ending up on top of a cliff that afforded majestic views.

To our left was a small, interesting grove of scrub pines and three different varieties of neon green moss. On our right, there was a drop off of at least 50 feet, which plunged into sparkling, azure water. Directly across the expanse of the creek is another crag. This was embedded with a mammoth deposit of exposed white Quartz, gleaming like snow in the sunlight.

As we descended into a lush, fecund ravine, the creek narrowed considerably and meandered into the woods in a pleasant fashion. It was flanked with flat, symmetrical slabs of stone that were accented here and there with tiny waterfalls. Centuries of running water had cut deep lines through the stone. Together with the faint bands in the bedrock, it looked as if fossilized layer cake had been perfectly laser-cut.

Our surreal jaunt through the forest culminated first in an open field full of wild, flax-colored wheat, followed by an illicit swim in a crisp, spring-fed pool beneath a giant waterfall. Shortly thereafter, we heard a Doom Gong thunderclap – obviously the harbinger of an Armageddon-worthy storm.

Since we hiked two-three miles to the spring-fed pool, mom and I decided to take the main road back with Lucy, hoping to hitchhike with some kindly rednecks. Of course,  we had no such luck.

The clouds roiled, clotting thickly behind us like The Belly Ache of the Century. The air grew stiff and electric; creaky hardwood trees bent over in windy agony. The hair on the back of our necks stood up and danger seemed imminent. My mom began running toward the campground and Lucy followed, her ears flapping wildly behind her.

I, on the other hand, felt no need to rush. The impending storm made me feel maniacal and alive. As the wind picked up and rain began pelting me in a sideways fashion, I slowed my roll, simply to enjoy the smell of water sizzling on the hot country pavement. Lightning tore from the clouds to the ground in yellow strands, close enough to give me goose bumps.

By the time I made it past the check-in office and down the long hill to our campsite, I was soaked through my overall shorts and tank top. My mom had beat me there, and was frantically throwing water susceptible foodstuffs in the car, though it appeared to me that most of our supplies were already past the point of no return.

At that moment I would have preferred tea, but as the fire had long sizzled out, I sat down at the picnic table and filled a plastic Solo cup with red wine. Well, at least it’s warming, I thought to myself.

My cousin and aunt showed up soon after I cozied up to the Merlot. They too were dripping wet, and set about changing into dry clothes.

Once they sat down to enjoy some refreshment of their own, a white, lowered Hyundai Elantra with three missing hubcaps rolled past our campsite. The sounds of the Dixie Chicks emanated from within their vehicle, and four white guys with backwards baseball caps rode inside.

The front passenger stuck his head out the open window, throwing out his pinky and forefinger in a “devil horns” fashion.

“Rain or shine, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he shouted as they passed us.

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It was a holiday weekend goddamn it, and no torrential downpours were going to stop the celebration the campground had planned for that evening. And what a celebration it was.

I only learned of the happening upon nightfall when I needed to relieve my bladder, which at that point was filled to capacity with wine from hours of sitting around, talking and drinking in the rain.

The central pavilion (home of Buck Hunter and picnic tables) was filled to max. capacity with campers. The scent of cigarettes and cheap beer wafted from the structure. Folks of every age, color and creed sang and hollered, boogying the night away to pop classics like “Cotton Eyed Joe” and “Who Let the Dogs Out”. Children chased each other around the nearby swings and monkey bars in the dark, yelling at least as loud as their dancing parents.

I watched in awe for a few minutes before hurrying away, reasoning that the intriguing scene probably wasn’t worth peeing my pants over.

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The following morning, it was finally time to pack it up and go home. My cousin and I deconstructed the tent in mere minutes. Then came the Herculean task of fitting the tent into its bag.

This job always seems so much easier than it inevitably is. It’s the biggest pain in the ass part of camping and conveniently, it comes last in the process. First, I tried cramming the tent in as is, with the poles already in the bag – big mistake. This never fits.

Next, I took the tent back out, jumped on it to release any trapped air inside, refolded it and crammed it back inside the bag. The cramming part takes about half an hour, but eventually it does fit.

I took time during the ridiculously long cramming process to reflect on camping as a whole, and why the hell we decide to do it. After all, it takes so much preparation just to drive somewhere, sit around a fire and drink, and seldom are we ever actually alone in nature, as we intend to be.

But the amazing thing about camping is that it takes a certain kind of lunatic to do it – especially at a public campground, with other lunatics. And I mean, to really do it, without cheating: no sleeping in cabins or watching television in an RV – just bringing a tent, and some food / water and related supplies.

I think the fact that we amuse ourselves, solely with a fire, red wine and smores for three days straight, is a feat of wonder in this technologically engorged age. The fact that we can all get soaked to the bone with rain (which happens more often than not), feel physically uncomfortable, not sleep a wink – and find humor and camaraderie in that with one another, as well as strangers – there’s a glimmer of resilience and toughness in that and it kind of allows for bragging rights at the end of the weekend.  

The fact of the matter is, we always remember the ridiculous, fantastic and annoying things that occur during the semi-annual Labor Day Camping Trip. And those very things are what will draw us back to this magical, yet god-forsaken place, again and again, twenty years from now.