I love nature as much as the next person. That is, if the next person is my mother. Her least favorite form of recreation is camping. Roughing it means only one thing to her: a motel with a black-and-white TV and no cable. She must have running water and indoor plumbing.
I inherited this particular trait from Mom, whose bond with the outdoors began years ago when I was 5. We took a vacation, camping out at Yellowstone National Park, with my Dad (his idea), brother, and sister (the Twins). Mom had packed the station wagon with enough food and supplies to make Gen. George S. Patton proud, including my favorite Fanta orange soda.
We were just sitting down to Mom’s fabulous spread when we heard clanging sounds. Nearby campers were banging on pots and pans, to warn others in the area that a bear was near. Dad, a man of opinions—most of them right, bless his soul—was of the opinion that the pot clangers were wrong and he was going to eat dinner. Mom opted for discretion over valor, grabbed us kids, and dove into the station wagon just as a large bear lumbered over the ridge and headed right for our table.
Yogi proceeded to raid our “pick-in-it basket,” going straight for my open bottle of orange soda. “He’s got my Fanta!” I squealed. Mom warned, “He’s going to have more than your Fanta if you don’t be quiet!” Dad stood his ground, roared, and waved his arms at the bear, which stood up and did the same, only better. Dad wisely jumped into the station wagon and fumed. So did Mom, and years later she advised me, “Sweetheart, you know your marriage is in trouble when you’re rooting for the bear.” Isn’t nature wonderful?
I haven’t gone camping since I was 14 and had no choice. For reasons beyond comprehension, the family packed up a tent and sleeping bags and headed to Hawley Lake, Ariz., in mid-July—the best time to go, when there’s not a single rock to stand on.
Incredibly, we found an empty campsite, and the Twins and now little brother John proceeded to clear rocks so we could pitch the tent. I was asked to hold up one side while everyone pulled canvas and hammered stakes. This went well until a downpour started, but I remained dutiful and held up my side. What seemed like ages later Mom looked out of the tent and stared at me like I was nuts. “What are you doing?” she shouted. “Holding up the tent for you, Ma!” I shouted back dutifully. “We finished pitching the tent 15 minutes ago. Get in out of the rain!” Soaking wet, I vowed this would be my last camping trip!
That night we hunkered down in our tent, which we’d pitched on a patch of ground slanted just enough to makes us all roll down toward the entrance. Mom’s kiddie-sized sleeping bag was too short for her. “I’m glad I clipped my toenails,” she muttered, adding, “There’s a cold horse somewhere tonight!” She was lucky; mine was leaking feathers and by morning the inside of our tent looked like a blizzard had hit. I had rolled down onto a pile of rocks John and the Twins had placed underneath the tent for my comfort. The best part was the aromatherapy provided by a passing skunk and discovering that bears aren’t the only ones who poop in the woods. I repeat, isn’t nature wonderful?
The Brit (my London-born husband) and I have a fear and loathing of camping in common. His own horror story occurred in the 1980s, when he and his late wife (also British) went camping with her two daughters. Like many women, she brought little things to try to make the trip more “homey,” including the Brit’s favorite dessert: a traditional English bread pudding, a dense, chewy concoction filled with golden raisins, cinnamon, and allspice—a recipe I have mastered. She had baked it in a foil pan, covered it with foil, and set it down on a blanket on the ground.
As the Brit tells it: “Night fell and we huddled, shivering, in our sleeping bags in the woods under the stars.” (What, no tent? Oh, the English! This is why they lost the war that gave us a reason to take a day off and celebrate this weekend!)
“Suddenly I saw something flicker nearby in the moonlight, followed by a rustling sound and movement,” he told me. “I sat up and watched in horror as my pan of bread pudding disappeared into the woods, pushed and carried by hoards of bloody chipmunks!” Well, what did he expect them to do, stop and sing “The Chipmunk Song?” (A personal note: No chipmunks were harmed while writing this story. Probably ground squirrels, they were not actually ‘bloody,’ the word here being a British colloquialism. Had the Brit been able to catch the little rodents, they probably would have been bloody in the true sense of the word.) Again, I say, isn’t nature wonderful?
Last month I packed up an overnight bag for Mini-Brit, our grandson, who went camping at Morro Bay with his third-grade class. When asked if we would like to share the experience, we said “Sure, what time do we pick him up?” When we did, he was filthy, smelly, and happy as a clam at high tide. He regaled us with his adventures as we drove home with the windows rolled down. “We went kayaking and saw starfish and otters and a baby otter, too! We made s’mores, and saw lots of constellations at night and could hear owls hooting!”
As I looked over my shoulder at the dirty, joyful, little face smiling at me from the back seat, I sighed and thought to myself, “God, isn’t nature wonderful?”
Ariel Waterman loves the outdoors when experienced from a hot tub. Send spa gift certificates via editor Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jun 30 – Jul 7, 2011.
