Modern camping is all about the accessories
We went camping with my sons' Cub Scout pack this past weekend. There were the usual crises: One little boy suffered a bee sting within the first hour while another found the poison ivy. Of course, my youngest was the one who nearly lost an eye because he ran up a dirt mound with a stick in his hand (showing up at school on Monday with a shiner). And, every parent eventually took a turn at shouting, "Don't throw that into the fire!"
Even more excruciating than watching the children's brushes with disaster was watching parents set up camp. Some of the tents are real doozies, practically like cabins. And I should know because I have a nine-person tent myself.
But since my wife couldn't make this trip, I brought the four-person tent for my boys and me. Never mind the size; modern camping is all about the "accessories."
Having camped a lot in Colorado while in college, we went with whatever you could carry on your back Ñmost of the time, little more than the tent, sleeping bag and a thin foam mat for extra insulation (plus a bottle of Schnapps to keep warm around the fire).
So when my wife went on of her first campouts during a Cub Scout trip, I chided her about wanting a blow-up mattress and an extra pillow. Right then is when one of the den leaders came trotting by our tent dragging a real mattress behind him. Even though my next trip to the sporting goods store I bought her a blow-up pad, she still hasn't let me forget about that.
One parent on our trip last weekend had a blow-up mattress that was massive--at least three-feet high--and it took a car-powered compressor to blow it up.
I silently snickered as I watched the husband struggle for an hour or so because the pump's internal breaker kept tripping, preventing full inflation. The next morning I asked the wife how she slept. "On the ground," she said scornfully.
One dad did have a cool portable hammock, complete with drink and book holder. Watching him set it up reminded me a bit of the cots Dad had on our campouts as a boy. They were rickety and not that much more comfortable than sleeping on the ground. And, like the rest of our camping gear, the tents, old cloth sleeping bags, event the pop-up camper, it smelled like a blend of mildew and the half a can of Lysol disinfectant that Mom would spray on everything we might touch.
My Mom had endurance but you wouldn't know it looking at her. She was tiny and always seemed to have the sniffles. She was asthmatic, had a weak heart, and hid her scoliosis very well with disciplined posture.
Mom was demure and not your outdoorsy kind of gal. But she was game. She came on every camping trip I can recall, although she had three prerequisites:
> A small camping port-o-potty--so no trees or hiding behind shrubs for her.
> Everything got hit with a full saturation of Lysol.
> We had to be back in town early enough to make church or find one en route (she was raised by nuns).
So, while I may have to cut a look at my wife on occasion for wanting a mattress in our tent, I applaud her for being willing to tough it out without a personal camping potty or propane curling iron.
And thankfully, she's never had an addiction to Lysol. Thus we only sweat the small stuff, like our sons being stung, stuck or bit by whatever they happen upon during hikes.
Copyright 2006 by David Falloure
