I have camped for as long as I can remember. It’s something that is part of me. I know that camping isn’t for everyone, but
to me, there are amazing things that happen outdoors. I imagine when I say
camping, most people have images that pop up in their mind about their own camping
experiences.
I should explain my definition of camping. A sleeping bag under
the stars, in a tent, or in a camper is camping. Camping is not sleeping under
a non-mobile roof structure. Sleeping inside your house or at a hotel is not
camping. When our kids were younger we
pitched a tent in the yard or on our deck, I’d call that camping. Today, my
definition of camping includes be away from home. “Roughing it” has a personal
definition for everyone. To me, roughing it is no running water or electricity;
no bathroom, no hot water, no light bulbs. My Sister-in-law’s “roughs it” in three star
hotels.
The first camping experience I remember was camping with my
Dad and older brother, Rusty. I think my
dad only took us once, he worked 7 days a week, so maybe that’s why this was so
special to me. He and his best friend Ed
Holden, who had two sons our ages, went along. We must
have been about five or six, maybe younger.
We piled our stuff into a van that my dad borrowed from work. It was painted the pale yellow and forest
green of all the trucks at my dad’s business.
“Kampas Bros” was painted on the side. It was a van manufactured in the
early sixties. In those days, vans were purely functional work vehicles. This one had two bucket seats in the front,
no windows in the back and a hard metal floor.
I know the floor was hard
because I recall great relief when we were finally released at the end of the
journey. Interstates 79 and 80 had not
yet been built, so it was two lane roads to Cook Forest. I actually remember very little about what we
did there, but I know we cooked over a fire, we four kids crammed into a pup
tent too small for us and we bathed in the stream next to our campsite. The stream felt like it was made of liquid
nitrogen. I remember the smell of fresh pine and seeing trout lazing at the
bottom of the crystal river. The fish
snubbed the worms we dangled in front of them.
One of the regular things Rusty and I did was to sleep
outside during the summer. While not technically camping, because we were not
away from home, we had the fresh air of the outdoors and used sleeping bags. One to five of the neighbor kids were always
there too. We didn’t have air
conditioning, so on hot summer nights we’d sneak into the swimming pools of
various neighbors to cool off. We
debated everything important to kids, from whether an M-80 will explode under
water to what we’d do with a mountain of gumballs. It was a simpler time,
before video games and M-TV.
I started camping on my own when I was sixteen. My best friend, Eric Hoffman, and I were
always doing something adventurous. We
had been exposed to rappelling through our youth group at church and became
hooked. We pooled our resources and
bought a clothesline from Woolworths. We fashioned our harnesses of hemp rope wrapped
into a swami belt. Through some
combination of luck and divine intervention we survived our early forays. Later, while practicing commando
rappels(upside down) with our upgraded hardware store nylon rope, we met some
guys at McConnell’s Mill State Park who were starting a rock climbing school.
We signed on immediately and within weeks were ‘real’ climbers on our first
overnight adventure. It didn’t take long
to realize that there had to be more comfortable ways to sleep on the
ground. Our giant cotton sleeping bags
would get replaced by slick, lightweight down filled mummy clouds. The pebbles that morphed into boulders
overnight were smoothed over by a thin piece of foam padding that aged into
something that resembled a giant curling potato chip. It was through rock climbing that I learned to
love the smell of nylon and the joy of being lulled to sleep by the symphony of
raindrops on the fly.
I climbed and camped all over the country for the following
20 years, but I’ll save those stories for another post.
I am blessed to have a great wife who loves to travel. When
we met, Stephanie would have probably have preferred to stay in a nice hotel, but now
she's hooked. An opportunity to travel,
even if it’s camping, is preferred to staying home. We started out camping in a tent, just as I
always had. After our daughters moved
out of baby mode, we started camping as a family. Within a few years, Steph
took pity on me for all the effort it took to set up camp. It was she who
suggested that we get a pop-up. We loved
that camper because it was easy to haul and the feeling of being in a tent was
there. Unfortunately, the pop-up still
required a significant amount of set up time and energy.
Last Spring we broke camper protocol. The accepted sequence of camper ownership
flows like a well choreographed ballet.
We should have moved to a hybrid camper. A hybrid is a cross between
pop-up and hardside camper . The hybrid has tent ends which fold out, plus they
have the kitchen and bathroom of a travel trailer. Our
mistake was taking the whole family to look at campers . Instead of a hybrid,
we moved from a pop-up to a 33 foot long rolling hotel suite. Think of how the Stay Puff marshmallow man lumbered
in “Ghost Busters” and you’ll know the feeling of seeing our camper chasing you
in the rearview mirror. Who wouldn’t prefer a rolling Taj Macamper.
The kids have their own bunks and with enough beds for 9
people, each can bring a friend without feeling cramped. The key ingredient for a family with three daughters and wife
with thimble size bladders is the bathroom.
We have had a great time this summer. The experiences that we’ve shared as a camping family will stay with us forever. They are priceless memories.