This past July, I went on my very first and very last camping trip. This was a mistake on my part for a variety of reasons, not least of which being my lack of stylish camping attire. Camping, I determined, was essentially a great way of giving yourself more work to do on a vacation, and for no apparent reason. It was like opting to build a log raft and paddle your way to Hawaii. I went camping in Northern California with a large group of friends, all of whom were either camping enthusiasts or good sports. I should have known it wasn’t the best idea for me, as I’d never found animals or plants to be all that amusing. Watching a deer nibble on berries was about as fascinating as watching one of my friends eat a ham sandwich. Same thing with zoos. You’d spend a whole day standing behind fences in the hot sun, observing animals do nothing. It was so dull that even the slightest movement, a yawn for instance, made everyone gawk in astonishment. “Unbelievable,” they’d say when the lion scratched his ear.
My friends convinced me to go on this camping trip by saying things like “It’s so beautiful there,” and “You have to go at least once in your life,” and “We’ll all get stoned by the campfire.” So, I agreed. We drove five hours north to the Sequoias, another hour through the national park, then at last pitched our tents near a stream where bears wandered about looking for food. Not an ideal location if you asked me, but no one did. During the day we hiked and wandered about; we took pictures of trees. At night we came back and cooked by the campfire.
Everyone always talked about how great the campfire was, and I’ll admit, it was nice. You’d sit around the crackling light, making s’mores, telling stories. It was cozy and endearing. The bugs also loved the campfire however; in fact, they reproduced exponentially within minutes of its ignition. And it’s hard to even enjoy smoking a joint when mosquitoes are swarming in your face. Additionally, the second you stepped away from the fire, the temperature dropped at least 50 degrees.
“Time to go chop more wood!” Our camp leader instructed when the fire would dwindle.
Time to check into a hotel.
The campfire had its perks, but not enough to justify the whole camping excursion. When you woke up in the middle of the night having to go to the bathroom, but were too scared to step into the woods for fear a bear would claw your eyes out, the fact that you’d eaten a s’more four hours earlier was little consolation. I tended to wake up several times a night, so placed into this context, each moment felt like a life or death decision. Can you hold it? Just for a little longer? Just for a little, little longer?
And when I knew I couldn’t, I began to squirm my way out of the sleeping bag. On one such occasion, Daniel, a fellow traveler, was woken up by my jostling.
“Are you going to the bathroom?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll be alright.”
“Well, I would at least take an ax with you.”
And here is my point: why would you ever have to bring an ax with you to go to the bathroom? No reason I could think of was positive, and every reason involved my potential demise. Truth be told, camping was not for me. Being surrounded by wonderful people made it a worth the while, but I much preferred being around them in a posher setting. You can still smoke a joint at the Hilton, and they offer fresh towels and a coffee pot in every room.
