Howdy,
About camping, What if?—or, If only …
Since I had a break in the action of this series, I won’t feel as badly about reworking and reintroducing (reusing) this introduction; but then I won’t keep pounding it to death for the last three posts in this series on romanticized camping, which really ends up being happy digs.
Camping is fascinating. And hilarious.
It’s hilarious that we romanticize it.
It also makes sense, because as I’ve said so many times now in this elastic string of episodes: camping is hope, high expectations and assumed promises each a roped-end holding up the hammock.
Camping holds an anticipation of relaxation. Adventure. Escape. Special hunger and satisfaction, fired up. Epic stories all around.
But you know what happens to real hammocks strung between two trees hung with real rope? The collapse with a snap and crash to the dirt, the ever-present dirt.
This happened to us this very weekend. I strung a hammock—with the very straps that I use to secure our beautiful red tandem kayak on the roof rack of Sarah’s silver Xterra (it’s a good look, I must say)—and it came crashing down. Surprisingly, it wasn’t my weight that did it. (Who has time to relax in a hammock when camping?) No, it was the kids, the children, the wild animals, running all over the place having a grand time. They really did! And part of their wild, active, healthy, and wholesome play (fairly hurt-free as well), included swinging hammock rides that resembled NASA rocket launches. (And a few crash landings as well. Let’s see, I know of at least three kids that terminated his or her sky swinging flights with flips and flops to smack landings on the face.)
We warned them: warned them to settle down the swinging; warned them of how to swing legs out first to stand up safely; warned them not to splat on their faces like the kid before them. Warns didn’t work. And soon my hammock didn’t either. The aggressive swinging and triads of joyfully screaming children being pushed violently by a couple of greedily gleeful others rubbed those strong straps to snapping frays. I wasn’t in eyeshot to witness the finally dumping to the dirt, but no bones were broken, and I got to untie the tattered remains of my “rope” that I thought would be stronger than just any old rope.
That account is less a blur romance with experience and more of an experience with kids, which can be … which can be … which can be … what …? Idyllic’s not the word …
Can be … challenging when camping. That’s no fiction.
First there’s pitching the tent and making the nest—comfy bedding is the best defense against the rest of camping will throw at you. That, and mosquito spray, but I must say that we only had a few mosquitos on our trip over the weekend. It wasn’t very buggy at all—though we did get a few bites and the boys are complaining of the itching now.
But having a tent and a bed and the rest of camp established is crucial. That’s what we’ve really had hit home these last few camping adventures this summer; we’re learning the importance of establishing the camp, establish our camp. Setting up like we’re going to stay awhile. Acknowledging that we’re there, going to live like that. It’s an event and action of actually setting up and not foolishly, half-heartedly living from scattered bags and boxes and action packers while chasing children with the youngest tucked under an arm because he can’t just be dropped in the dirt to eat ants and rocks while crawling around skinning up his knees and toes.
When camping with a larger group, like going tent camping with our church group—most of whom are smart enough to bring RV’s or stay in cabins—those kind (clean) people (with grown children) making a stab at showing us empathy, sympathy, and all the other patheia pathies out there serving as a nice way to show a concern that says, “It sucks to be you right now,” tell us that we’re in the hardest stage for tent camping right now. And I believe them. Ages six, three, and one. Pre-walking one. Not yet post-bottle one. Bug-and-rock-eating one.
The romance of this post: three happy, grade-school boys riding their own bikes around the campground by themselves, checking in with a wave or a whoop as they circle by, baseball card flapping a motorcycle’s roar as they go. While Sarah and I set up camp—‘cause it’ll be nice to stay awhile.
Except we wouldn’t want to miss anything along the way, or rush this time we have, so we’ll just take our time setting up our site, Camp Patheia. Base site for rumping rocket launches—aka, Hawesienda. A romantic estate.
Oh, happy camper.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
Word Count: 141,777 / On Pace: 151,250 / Year’s Goal: 200,000
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