Camping, reconsidered

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I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.—Abraham Lincoln

I hate camping. Or is it, “I am the sort of person who hates camping.” Or, “I’m the type who puts up with camping only when really good photo ops are involved.”?

In the past year, I’ve been harassed, railroaded, and manipulated into temporary tent-living on multiple occasions, which would be odd for someone who actually hated camping. In each case, I had a specific rationale for overriding my dislike: I did it to get those Big Bend photos, to reconnect with a European friend who has romantic notions about the American Southwest, and because My Man really needed a nature transfusion. I did it for them, I told myself—I did it even though I Hate Camping.

But this last bout has made me reconsider one of the basic tenets of my existence. A mere four days camping by a drought-stricken East Texas lake of modest photo potential, a camping trip punctuated by muggy heat, violent thunderstorms, then cold drizzle—by a leaky tent, by raccoon trash-raids, and a bathroom closed by a water main break—has sent me into a tailspin of self examination. Because I really enjoyed it.

It helped that The Man put a lot of thought and trouble into making it comfortable for me, from the bedding to the time of year, and every detail in between. Another mitigating factor was that he always sought and listened to my opinions, even though he knows a helluva lot more about camping than I do. But the unsettling underlying fact remains: plenty of things went wrong on this trip—and I still really enjoyed it.

The silence was the best part of it, the silence and the dark: the day, uncluttered by phones, clocks, and radios—the evening unfettered by TV, sirens, cars passing. The night sky blazing. Birds calling. The cup of camp-coffee sitting on the end of a pier over a misty lake. Flesh against warm flesh on a cold rainy night. Even the squirrels barking and throwing things at us.

It’s still true that I don’t like being dirty, sleeping on the hard ground, or squatting in the woods. I really don’t like being hot and sweaty, or hiking for miles and miles (thereby getting hot and sweaty). But apparently, not every camping trip requires all of these things—and sometimes the experience itself can be compelling enough to make me overlook those that do come up.

Maybe I don’t hate camping at all.

What an idea.

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