… and I’d do it again, but only if my kids really wanted to go camping with me. I enjoy the comforts of my bed, a nearby bathroom and toilet, the climate control, the absence of bugs.
Don’t get me wrong, there are certain things about camping that I still really enjoy: the simplicity, all the little gadgets and gear, a camp fire, setting up a little patch of space to make it your own, even if it’s just as big as a sleeping bag, the night sky.
I mentioned before that I went to some very bougie schools. One of them had an outdoor education program on a few acres of land next to Shenandoah National Park. It was pretty bare bones: platform tents with cots, outhouses, a basic shower house. But there was a fully functional kitchen and a classroom building both of which had electricity and running water. Each year, we’d go stay there for up to a week with our classmates and teachers. I spent a few summers there working as a counselor.
Once, much later on, I went camping for one night with a group of friends. It was much more rustic than that. We basically carried some blankets and beer through a stream and into the woods not too far from where some of them lived. It was nice, but in the morning, I was aching and sore, maybe even slightly feverish. One of the friends we were with had spent a good portion of time living in a jungle in Southeast Asia. He was a refugee and his life was less “camping” and more “surviving” and I assume that this version of staying out overnight in the forest probably looked pretty cushy from his point of view. My whole body ached. “You’re not used to this,” he said by way of explanation as to why I felt sick. And he was right.
The one time I had come even close to the way he had lived in the jungle, I went to visit an army camp in the jungle on the Thai-Burmese border. For me, the hike up the mountain was difficult. At the top, there were a few bamboo and wood buildings, similar to the ones in the refugee camp where I’d been teaching. I was given a room to myself while the soldiers shared a communal one. I was the only woman at the base at the time. Tired from the walk, I slept well even with just the bare-bones accommodations of a few blankets on the floor. But that wasn’t really camping.
I’ve taken my kids car camping. They enjoy all the coziness of sleeping together in a family tent where they can explore the myriad zippers and pockets, consider how best to set up their own spaces. And the s’mores too. One time, my daughter carried around the bag of marshmallows the whole time, as if it was a comforting stuffed animal. I think she was rather shocked when we eventually ripped open the bag and roasted the contents over the fire.
No matter how flat the ground, it always seemed like the few times we went camping with the kids, we’d end up having shifted, rolled, and slid through the night. I felt like the princess and the pea, only it would be a rock or two that I inevitable end up on top of and would feel even through the camping mats. I suppose that enough of these sore and achy mornings and the idea of camping has lost its appeal. Or maybe I am a bit of a princess.
Over the past year, I’ve had many nights when aches and pains from chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation have disrupted my sleep. I’ve been grateful to have a bathroom (and painkillers) so close by. I spent a small fortune on various pillows and bedding in different shapes and sizes for maximum nighttime comfort. So for right now, I’m glad I’m not sleeping on a forest floor.
But maybe, JUST maybe… I can begin to imagine a time when my body feels well enough that sleeping directly under the stars, even with a rock in my back, will be all the comfort it needs.
Rhena Writes 