Grandpa's Camping Trip, Part 1
I survived camping for three whole days!!!
OK, that's really pathetic-- there are probably those of you out there who have done week long 50 mile backpacking trips without so much as messing up your hair. I, however, fall into the category of people who freak out at the idea of using an outhouse, find a tent an unnervingly claustrophobic place, and enjoy their interactions with nature in small doses.
So why again did I go camping?
For the last four years my father has taken some of the grandkids on a camping trip in July. The rule is that you have to be at least 8 years old to go along, and that you need a parent if at all possible so the adults don't get totally outnumbered. In past years B and J have gone, and we've gotten a pass on the parent attending rule because Terence has had to work and S has needed me home with her. But this year, K was old enough to go, and we judged that M was old enough to take care of S while Terence was at work, so I went to be the third adult in the group.
The things we do for our kids!
I made one stipulation off the bat. I was only going to sleep in our mammoth ten person tent that we bought several years ago for the trip to Cherry Hill in Utah. It was the only prayer I had of getting any sleep-- I need a tent big enough to stand up and move around in so I don't panic. That meant that Terence had to teach me how to put the thing up on my own (which was an adventure-- we did it in the garage in the middle of a blazing hot day-- and then I had to spray 4 cans of Scotchgard over the whole thing). Last minute we realized that we had loaned our tarp out and never gotten it back, so I made a night-before run to Walmart to pick up a tarp and a foam sleeping pad. Then I promptly forgot to take both the tarp and the sleeping pad out of the back of the van so they never made it on the trip. Oops.
The drive was uneventful, other than feeling that I was going to die. I am a much, much more cautious driver than I used to be. Possibly I'm just getting paranoid in my old age, or it may be all the accident horror stories my cop husband has brought home over the years. But my dad drives like a bat out of hell on those windy, narrow two lane highways and does a ton of passing (even pulling a trailer). Sometimes I wished I was in the back seat so I at least couldn't see the next time he decided to pass a line of five cars. . . .
Once up in the mountains we had our first stroke of good luck. It had rained in the afternoon but it was done by the time we got there so we were able to set up camp without getting poured on. I am quite proud of myself! I managed to get my tent up with only a little help from B (we even finished before Ryan and his boys did). My dad bailed me out by provided some air mattresses and tarps, good thing he brought extras! We had a laid back dinner of reheated hash and then a round of smores and ghost stories around the fire. By bedtime I was absolutely bushed-- and I was hopeful that meant I would sleep well.
Unfortunately, no. First of all, it was FREEZING. I know 49 degrees is not the end of the world, but it feels like it when your body is adjusted to 110. Second, I learned right away that the tent made me nervous, but not nearly as claustrophobic as the mummy-style sleeping bag made me. But when I unzipped it so I didn't go into a full-blown panic attack, I got cold quickly. It was not my best night of sleep ever, especially with the tossing and turning and then the wolves.
Yes, wolves.
The Mexican gray wolf has been reintroduced into the wild, and our campsite was smack in the middle of their "primary recovery zone." The park host mentioned that there have been sightings but that they wouldn't bother us; we just needed to lock up all our food in the cars, same as we would for the black bears.
No, they didn't bother us. But they did come near our campsite and howl for awhile, which made my hair stand on end (woke up B and freaked her out too). I've heard dogs howl, and I've heard coyotes howl (often, down where I live) and this was completely different. My body reacted with a serious fight-or-flight adrenaline rush.
Worst part? Once they woke me up, I realized that I had to pee. Really badly. At 3am. So yes, I had to make the trek to the lovely park outhouse several campsites away in the utter pitch black. I waited for the howling to stop before I dared leave the tent but do you have any idea how creepy it is at 3am when the only sign of life you've heard around you is a wolf howl?
I think that was the longest, freakiest bathroom trek I've made in my life. But hey, at least it wasn't raining.
(To Be Continued. . . .)
OK, that's really pathetic-- there are probably those of you out there who have done week long 50 mile backpacking trips without so much as messing up your hair. I, however, fall into the category of people who freak out at the idea of using an outhouse, find a tent an unnervingly claustrophobic place, and enjoy their interactions with nature in small doses.
So why again did I go camping?
For the last four years my father has taken some of the grandkids on a camping trip in July. The rule is that you have to be at least 8 years old to go along, and that you need a parent if at all possible so the adults don't get totally outnumbered. In past years B and J have gone, and we've gotten a pass on the parent attending rule because Terence has had to work and S has needed me home with her. But this year, K was old enough to go, and we judged that M was old enough to take care of S while Terence was at work, so I went to be the third adult in the group.
The things we do for our kids!
I made one stipulation off the bat. I was only going to sleep in our mammoth ten person tent that we bought several years ago for the trip to Cherry Hill in Utah. It was the only prayer I had of getting any sleep-- I need a tent big enough to stand up and move around in so I don't panic. That meant that Terence had to teach me how to put the thing up on my own (which was an adventure-- we did it in the garage in the middle of a blazing hot day-- and then I had to spray 4 cans of Scotchgard over the whole thing). Last minute we realized that we had loaned our tarp out and never gotten it back, so I made a night-before run to Walmart to pick up a tarp and a foam sleeping pad. Then I promptly forgot to take both the tarp and the sleeping pad out of the back of the van so they never made it on the trip. Oops.
The drive was uneventful, other than feeling that I was going to die. I am a much, much more cautious driver than I used to be. Possibly I'm just getting paranoid in my old age, or it may be all the accident horror stories my cop husband has brought home over the years. But my dad drives like a bat out of hell on those windy, narrow two lane highways and does a ton of passing (even pulling a trailer). Sometimes I wished I was in the back seat so I at least couldn't see the next time he decided to pass a line of five cars. . . .
Once up in the mountains we had our first stroke of good luck. It had rained in the afternoon but it was done by the time we got there so we were able to set up camp without getting poured on. I am quite proud of myself! I managed to get my tent up with only a little help from B (we even finished before Ryan and his boys did). My dad bailed me out by provided some air mattresses and tarps, good thing he brought extras! We had a laid back dinner of reheated hash and then a round of smores and ghost stories around the fire. By bedtime I was absolutely bushed-- and I was hopeful that meant I would sleep well.
Unfortunately, no. First of all, it was FREEZING. I know 49 degrees is not the end of the world, but it feels like it when your body is adjusted to 110. Second, I learned right away that the tent made me nervous, but not nearly as claustrophobic as the mummy-style sleeping bag made me. But when I unzipped it so I didn't go into a full-blown panic attack, I got cold quickly. It was not my best night of sleep ever, especially with the tossing and turning and then the wolves.
Yes, wolves.
The Mexican gray wolf has been reintroduced into the wild, and our campsite was smack in the middle of their "primary recovery zone." The park host mentioned that there have been sightings but that they wouldn't bother us; we just needed to lock up all our food in the cars, same as we would for the black bears.
No, they didn't bother us. But they did come near our campsite and howl for awhile, which made my hair stand on end (woke up B and freaked her out too). I've heard dogs howl, and I've heard coyotes howl (often, down where I live) and this was completely different. My body reacted with a serious fight-or-flight adrenaline rush.
Worst part? Once they woke me up, I realized that I had to pee. Really badly. At 3am. So yes, I had to make the trek to the lovely park outhouse several campsites away in the utter pitch black. I waited for the howling to stop before I dared leave the tent but do you have any idea how creepy it is at 3am when the only sign of life you've heard around you is a wolf howl?
I think that was the longest, freakiest bathroom trek I've made in my life. But hey, at least it wasn't raining.
(To Be Continued. . . .)
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