We are not camping people. See, I just wrote “camping people” instead of “campers”. No true camper is ever going to use the term “camping people”. Whoever they are, we have never been them. Until now. Maybe. We didn’t undertake our usual summer vacation this year due to Coronavirus uncertainties, but during the final week of August, as my favorite season hurtled toward a close, I realized that I needed to get myself, Big Daddy, Little Big Boss, and That Dude out of here for at least a couple days before the post-Labor Day start of the school year. We weren’t ready to commit to a hotel stay anywhere, so camping seemed a logical next choice. Besides, I have carried years of guilt for nearly always insisting that the family’s summer travels lead to a sandy beach (MY happy place) rather than at least attempting to venture to another terrain. (I can find the perfect beach house rental on VRBO in about 20 minutes flat; I can search for a mountain getaway for 5 hours and not identify anything approaching acceptable. Seems a bit suspect, I know.)
Armed with a strong dose of summer-is-slipping-away panic, I key in on Rocky Gap State Park, about 2 hours from home, for our camping adventure. There’s hiking! There’s boating! There’s a lake! There’s a BEACH! (Stay focused, girl; this is not only about you.) I check the reservation system for the nights we’re interested in and discover we have our choice of campsites (woot!). The final day of August and first day of September, a fine symbolic transition from summer to fall, I think to myself. I select a site with a view of the beach (shocker!), not far from the bathhouse, and close to the Camp Store, and reserve our 2-night stay, which costs us an economical 50 bucks. How thrifty! We are on now our way to being camping people! But with only 8 days between booking and actual camping, I must enter hyperdrive mode with the online #camplife shopping and making ALL THE LISTS.
Within hours of securing the campsite, I order an 8-person tent (for our party of 4), 2 foot-pumped queen size air mattresses (you didn’t think we were going to sleep on the ground, did you?), a couple of lanterns, and the cutest set of camping cookware ever (there’s an itty bitty tea kettle!). I run a mental inventory of “dual-use” gear we non-campers already own like sleeping bags (sleepovers) and hot dog roasting sticks (backyard firepit). I print checklists I find online of things we may need. I make my own handwritten lists of things we will bring, things we still need to buy, meals we will make, things we will do. Traveling lists are the best lists. I am a truly happy camper at this stage of the game. I confide to a friend that the intensive list-making may be the most enjoyable part of camping. I do not check the weather forecast.
The tent arrives quickly (thanks, Amazon!), leaving enough time to do a test run, so I recruit LBB and TD one afternoon a few days before the trip to help me try to figure out this big beauty. TD (11) offers approximately 4 minutes of “help” before assessing the project as beneath him (also it was hot) and heading back into the house. (Despite having long been a shoo-in for the “Least Helpful Quaranteamate” award, TD continues to rack up mad points in this category.) LBB (almost 13) hangs in there with her mama as we puzzle it out. On the IKEA Furniture Assembly Scale of Difficulty (IFASOD), the tent is probably only about a 4 out of 10, but the magnitude of the dwelling works against us a bit, so we bumble along with less-than-impressive progress for awhile. Big Daddy pops up on the scene out of nowhere (as he tends to do when his Spidey senses alert him to an engineering project in the vicinity) and suddenly the tent starts to actually look like a tent. (Coincidence? Probably not.) Alas, just as our soon-to-be home-away-from-home takes shape, the 5 o’clock skies open up upon us (also from out of nowhere) for a serious 5-minute downpour before we can get the rain flap on. The inside of the tent gets drenched. I wonder if it might be an omen to us almost camping people. I check the weather forecast for our trip.
The forecast calls for some rain, some of the time. We don’t have leeway to reschedule the trip. It’s either camp as planned or call it off. I dither briefly, but we need to get away from here. Also, I have a recipe for double-baked potatoes that you bake at home, slice partially open in a wedge-like configuration, shove bacon and shredded cheese into the slots, wrap in foil, pack in the cooler, and then chuck into the base of the campfire for 20 minutes to reheat. They’re going to be amazing. I am not canceling. (It does not occur to me until literally the moment of this writing that I could make these potatoes and reheat them in our backyard firepit. Or the microwave. I am committed to eating these potatoes near our big beautiful tent with its view of the beach.)
I forge on with the shopping and the gathering and the prep cooking and the packing. The number of bags, boxes, and various other types of containers in our “vacation staging area”(AKA the playroom) grows rapidly and alarmingly. Big Daddy raises one eyebrow, then the other, and observes, “That’s a lot of bags.” I assure him it will all fit in the van. His desire to be able to see out the back window strikes me as selfish and unreasonable. I keep on stockpiling. I counsel the children on the need to be ready to be warm or cold or wet (or warm and cold and wet); the importance of bringing many, many pairs of dry socks; the criticality of extra tennis shoes. LBB sees me headed downstairs with my bag of clothes the day before the trip and asks drolly, “Already overpacked?” Laugh it up, tween sage! When you’re down to zero pairs of fresh socks and trudging around sadly in soggy sneakers, don’t come crying to me.
Big Daddy cleans out the van the afternoon before the trip. I stare into the spacious cavern created by folding down the third row of seats but still feel a nervous twinge about whether everything’s going to fit. (My previous assurances to Big Daddy were pure bluster and I am fully aware that one day he will call my bluff.) Our purchase two summers ago of a cooler we proudly named “Goliath” seems of questionable wisdom when it comes to packing for vacation–especially this one. Goliath is the man for day-trips: local baseball tourneys, quick dashes to the beach, but he’s a total space hog when you’re also trying to get in a canopy, 4 chairs, a tent, air mattresses, sleeping bags, towels, tarps, cooking gear, non-cooler food, clothes, games, etc. Everything must be planned around where Goliath will be residing for the trip. I manage, with relief, to cram the contents of the staging area into the rear of the van. I realize almost immediately that LBB and Big Daddy have not packed their clothes yet (or at least did not present them for inclusion in the Great Stuffing). I inform them of the good news that I have succeeded in packing the van, and the bad news that they have missed their chance to bring any clothes. I eventually relent and allow them one checked bag and a carry-on a piece, which we somehow create space for.
Departure day dawns, but check-in is not until 3 pm and we have morning running around to do, so we hit the road around 11 am. One million checklists notwithstanding, I forget the loaf of bread that is critical to my back-up menu plans, and realize it only a few miles from the park. We keep on rolling beyond the park to a Love’s truck stop, grab some McDonald’s for lunch and pick up the very important loaf of bread. Big Daddy thinks Bill (my 18-year old stepdaughter ) will be delighted to know we have purchased “truck stop bread,” for reasons that he was not able to articulate to me in the moment and are perhaps best left to all of our imaginations. We are able to check in to the campsite early (huzzah!) around 1:45 pm, under ominous but holding skies. I have had the brainstorm en route that we should set up our canopy first so that we will have a dry space under which to set up the tent, and–more importantly–retain some hope of not getting the inside of the tent soaked (again). But the canopy was among the first items I packed since it’s bulky and heavy, so we have to take out 867 small things to get to the canopy.
We find our campsite, which apparently only has a beach view when there’s substantially less foliage at play and also turns out to be a the bottom of a hill. We (and by “we” I mean everyone but TD, who is here under extreme protest) swing into action to make camp. The rain holds off until the canopy is up and most of the 867 small things are out of the van. I am feeling like a genius for packing three tarps: one on which to rest the tent, one on which to rest the things, one with which to cover the things from the rain. The rain comes down steadily, but we assemble the tent and secure the rain flap without getting almost any water inside! We might be camping people! Some of the things go inside the tent; some of the things go under the canopy; some of the things go back in the van. We place the canopy beside the tent and Big Daddy backs up the van to the canopy so that we can open the tailgate to access things but stay dry in the process. LBB and TD are pumping up the air mattresses in the tent when Big Daddy has the light bulb moment that we have positioned the tent entry the wrong way. It does not face the canopy. It faces the picnic table. We need to turn the tent 90 degrees if we want to enjoy the cover of the canopy when entering and exiting the tent. We need to turn the tent 90 degrees if we want to have any hope of preserving the “No Shoes in the Tent” rule AND keeping our shoes dry. I ask whether Big Daddy could have had this idea about 20 minutes ago. He does not respond. We re-position the tent with two partially-inflated air mattresses and four sleeping bags (but no children) inside. We might not be camping people.
With little hope of making a decent fire in the non-stop rain–and multiple objections to the idea of eating truck stop bread PB&J for dinner–we decide on Subway for dinner, and Big Daddy makes a run. LBB, TD, and I play a board game in the tent while we await his return, and I think, “OK, this is quality family time,” until they start arguing over who controls the “floor lantern” and what’s the appropriate setting for the “ceiling lantern”. The forecast now calls for rain for essentially our whole trip. Can I endure 48 hours of lantern wars? They’re also mega-freaking out about the high volume of Daddy Long Legs traffic between the rain flap and top of the tent. Can I endure 48 hours of spider panic? More importantly, is there going to be an opportunity to reheat my lovingly prepared potatoes?
I am subject to more panicking about the bugs when we trek after dinner to the bathhouse for teeth brushing and facility use, since various kinds of insects and spiders seem to enjoy hanging out there. My attempts to add perspective by noting that I am more concerned about bears than I am about harmless Daddy Long Legs don’t go over well. LBB gulps, “Bears?” looking for reassurance that isn’t forthcoming that Mama “I Got Jokes” Watkins is kidding, right? Fortunately, LBB is too busy tongue-lashing TD over his subpar lantern-bearing skills on the way back to the campsite to remember to hyperventilate about possible bears. We are bedded down by around 8:30 pm–completely unheard of in a household that typically goes lights out no earlier (and frequently later) than 10 pm–exhausted from our first day of real camping. TD, hyped to “tell scary ghost stories” as we lie in bed, is momentarily miffed when I nix the idea, buts warms to the telling of any stories. We share early childhood memories, learning–among other fascinating facts–that Big Daddy still remembers the first and last names of nearly everyone he went to Kindergarten with. Impressive and odd at the same time.
Everyone struggles to fall asleep, the unfamiliarity of the setting and really annoying sound of rain against polyester winning out over our exhaustion. I make another trip to the bathhouse with TD, who has secondary business that he failed to complete on the previous walk through the dark and rain, before everyone eventually conks out. We wake to the beautiful sounds of not-rain, and I check the forecast to see how long this miracle might last. Ninety minutes. We have 90 minutes–give or take–to build a fire; heat water for cocoa; warm sausages; and make pancake batter and cook 8 pancakes one-by-blessed-one in our tiny (but super cute) camp cookware. My sweet neighbor-friend’s advice to keep the meals simple is echoing through my head on high volume. Seeing the urgency of the situation, we futz with the air mattresses for about 20 minutes to restore some of the air they have lost overnight. Eventually Big Daddy gets the fire going as I poke around the back of the van playing a world-class game of “Where the Heck Did I Put That?” since my original organizational system was destroyed yesterday when the priority was to get bags back in the van and out of the rain. We succeed in heating a kettle of water, burning pre-cooked sausages, and making 7 pancakes before it starts pouring again. TD’s first pancake cannot be salvaged after falling to its peril on a muddy tarp, so I give him my first pancake (which also turns out to be my only pancake because the other one with my name on it doesn’t make it to the pan before the rain resumes). I make LBB and TD cups of hot cocoa using the water from the kettle, planning to make myself some Chai with the remaining water, but as I deliver their warm drinks to them in the tent, Big Daddy accidentally knocks over the kettle. No pancakes for me! No Chai for me! (#momlife) Luckily Goliath brought along some cold coffee and I am all about iced coffee in summer, so I get a caffeinated drink to start my day after all! I also get cereal and a boiled egg from the back-up menu. All is not lost.
The forecast assures us that the rain will eventually stop, so I play Mad Libs in the van with TD as we wait it out. I accredit Mad Libs with helping to teach our children the parts of speech, even though we have to restate every time we play that you can only use the word “toilet” once during any given session and that we’re not accepting “wenus” as a body part. After a time, we start reading previous entries, including a few where he was the writer at a very young age. Given what a terrible sleeper (and go-to-sleeper) TD is, among the best of these oldies is “How To Go To Sleep,” which includes, “Breathe luckily and think about something beautiful, such as green volchers [vultures]. Do not think about your furry enemies or entertain any other chunki thoughts.” The rain gives way to just clouds around 11:30 am, and we scurry lakeside to see whether we might rent a kayak or two. But the boathouse is closed and the staffer at the nearby Camp Store advises that if the boathouse isn’t open yet, chances are it’s not opening at all. LBB looks very, very sad. The only thing she really specifically wanted to do on the camping trip was to go boating. A simple request that seemed easy enough to fulfill. The staffer suggests that the boathouse at the resort might be open. We head back down to the beach to ensure that the camp boathouse has not somehow miraculously opened in the 5 minutes since we last checked (it has not), so we decide to wade in the lake for a bit and find ourselves in a family rock skipping session. Big Daddy and TD are both rock-solid rock skippers, so watching them achieve 6 or 7 bounces that end up halfway across the lake is very cool. LBB and I each succeed in some modest 2 or 3 bounce skips, tickled with ourselves whenever we avert a “plonk”. Everyone is having fun!
We mosey back to our campsite after a time so that Big Daddy can make another run at a fire. I see double-baked potatoes in my future. I call the resort to see if their boathouse is open (yes!) and ask whether you have to be a guest to rent a boat (no!). LBB, TD, and I jump in the van, leaving Big Daddy to tend to the campfire and magic up some hot lunch. I am so eager to get LBB in a watercraft that I fail to follow the most basic rule of parenting: make sure everyone goes to the bathroom first. We rent a 3-person canoe and gear up; I give the requisite lecture on not tipping the canoe; we crew our way out to the middle of the lake; LBB looks very, very happy. The sky looks threatening, but we think positive thoughts and toodle around for a contented 30 minutes (minus the 2 minutes after TD (in the front) clocked LBB in the head with the butt of his paddle). TD announces he needs to pee. LBB fumes and rages. “How long can you hold it?” I ask. TD doesn’t know. I start steering us back toward the launch. LBB fumes and rages some more. I remind LBB that 2 hours ago we thought we might not get to boat at all and now we are going to get about 45 minutes in. Think of this as gravy! She rejects this gravy. She rages and fumes harder. I stop talking. She has a right to reject this gravy. I would have rejected this gravy at age 12, too. The boathouse attendant doesn’t see us come in, but–without any help–we manage to land on the beach and all get out of the canoe without anyone ending up falling in! We hand over our gear and scramble away to get TD some relief. LBB continues to rage and fume. Her stamina for the raging and the fuming is extraordinary.
Back at camp, we eat hot, cheesy, bacony, double-baked potatoes for late lunch. They are delectable.
Later I take TD to the lake to swim, although he spends the first 15 minutes skipping more rocks. He revels in the rock skipping and the swimming and the dedicated attention from me. (“Watch this, Mom!” “Can you do this?”) He seems very content, so I venture, “Maybe camping’s not so bad?” He sets me straight immediately,”Oh no. Camping is terrible. I am never camping again. I just like the lake.” LBB–beset with a headache from the raging and the fuming–has hung back with Big Daddy at the campfire, which we have decided to feed continuously–and keep cooking things over–until the rain returns. After TD and I finish up at the lake, we find LBB diligently roasting hot dogs wrapped in crescent dough. This is another “easy” recipe I have included on our menu, but it proves super tricky to get the dough to cook evenly–and it takes approximately forever. LBB makes herself a nearly perfect one, then sets it aside to continue cooking more for others. Once TD dries off and changes up from swimming, he joins us by the fire and immediately pitches a fit about not wanting dough on his. We send him to the picnic table, where both LBB’s perfect finished dog and the not-yet-cooked-wrapped-in-dough dogs are, and instruct him to take the crescent rolls off one so that he can roast the hot dog by itself. Which dog does he remove the crescent roll from? LBB’s perfect finished dog, of course. Of course. Of course. In no sibling tale could the outcome have been any different. He is questionably remorseful. She loses her mind. The raging and the fuming of earlier seem like amateur hour. She sits in the front passenger seat of the van and screams at the universe for a solid 10 minutes. To her credit, she calms herself eventually and doesn’t injure TD.
We go to bed crazy early again the second night. It’s easy to see how electricity has really messed up our bodies’ natural rhythms. We tell more stories from our childhoods, at TD’s impassioned urging. The rain comes back. Big Daddy, TD, and I all wake up at the same time in the deep of night and need to use the facilities. I am the only one who actually ventures off the campsite to do this, braving my way up the road with the “floor lantern” and wishing one of my bickering potty buddies were with me. Thankfully, the rain has ceased for the time being and Big Daddy’s watching for my return so that he can show me these luminous glowing spots–maybe eyes?–on the forest floor around the campsite. Are they frogs? Glowing plants? Who knows? But it’s kind of magical, whatever it is. We clamber back into the tent, performing for what seems like the 100th time in two days the awkward ritual of shaking our shoes off onto the tarp outside before crawling into our temporary lodging. We’ve successfully honored the “No Shoes in the Tent” rule so far. Feels like we may be getting the hang of this, so naturally it’s almost time to go home.
Once more we wake up to a pause in the rain, but the forecast says more is coming, and the forecast has been painfully correct so far. I believe the forecast. The forecast is my new best friend. Big Daddy makes a final campfire and we (and by “we” I mean everyone but the sulky, slow-moving, never-camping-again TD) dart around the campsite crazily (cue Benny Hill chase scene music with no chasing and more clothes) trying to pack up and have breakfast at the same time. All the small stuff in the van must come out once again so that all the big stuff can go in, which results in a picnic table full of vulnerable things because now all the tarps are super dirty and cannot be used for protection as they were when we set up camp. We triumphantly outpace the rain with our speed packing! (I refuse to count the few sprinkles that rudely insinuated their way in to the process.) On the way home, we pull over in a “No Stopping Anytime” zone on the highway because LBB and TD end up in a slap fight in the back seat over a Caprisun that LBB has confiscated from TD’s snack bag to prevent him from drinking it too soon (and possibly necessitating a premature potty stop) and TD has unbuckled his seat belt to more fully pursue the slap fight and pouch drink, and refuses to buckle back up. LBB has a conniption over stopping in the face of a clear “No Stopping” mandate and TD moves at sloth speed to re-engage his seat belt. In fairness, this particular gem of sibling dysfunction could have happened on the way home from a beach vacation, too.
We arrive home without consuming a single slice of truck stop bread. We break one of the tent poles when we reassemble the tent to hose it down and air it out. But we achieved the goal of getting away. And we stuck out a really rainy trip when we could have bailed completely or cut it short. We made pancakes and potatoes, hot beverages and hot dogs. No one got hurt (except maybe in the slap fight on the way home). We skipped rocks and paddled a canoe and went swimming and played games and told stories. We didn’t bring our shoes in the tent. We are still not exactly camping people, but we are closer than we were before.
Brownie Stew 