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My husband grew up camping with his family. It’s where he honed his deep-seeded love for old Volkswagen Vanagons, making ground beef “hobo” meals around a small fire, and anything that has to do with the outdoors.
He continued this tradition up until the week he left for college, camping at nearby Grayson Highlands with his mom, dad, and older brother Jason. By that point, he’d already met me. I think he knew this was going to be his last camping adventure for quite a while, and he was correct!
You see, I didn’t come from a family of campers. Sure, we lived a quarter-mile off the road, had a home flanked on both sides by cornfields and creeks, and spent all our days outdoors. Yet, when the sun set and the bats came out, my parents, siblings and I enjoyed the comforts of home. We lived for central air, cable television and our own beds.
When we married in balmy August, I told my husband that I would try to embrace his love of “roughing it.” I said this while I swatted away gnats and mosquitos while on our island honeymoon, halfway joking with a grimace on
my face. Always a man of his word, he held me to mine.
Only a few short months after our wedding, he asked me to to go hiking at a nearby nature preserve with him, which he thought would then culminate with an overnight stay. On the ground. Inside a tent. A long walk in the dark to a dingy, buggy shower. I nodded my head in silent agreement but inside, I vowed to make him watch a million chick flicks with me, mud masks on our faces and deep conditioning treatments in our hair.
I relented, but thankfully the rain held us back! Our plans foiled, we decided to just try again another time. Then, I took a good look at my husband’s face. He was truly disappointed and, although I was rejoicing inside, it pained me to see him upset. So, I put a plan into action.
This year, I decided to surprise Robert with a camping trip for his 32nd birthday. I asked him to meet me at my workplace after he got off work, and that I had a surprise in store. Before I left that morning, I loaded down our little sedan
with all the essentials: the brand-new tent that hadn’t seen the light of day, a camp stove, our pajamas and clothes for the next morning, as well as the ingredients for hobos, all over ice. Had we been experienced campers, I’d have brought along a legitimate camper van complete with a
lithium RV battery. Yet, we only had this little two-seater and it would have to work.
He pulled up beside my parking spot and I opened my trunk. I’ll never forget his sheer excitement for as long as I live! He was thrilled, the weather was ideal and I was actually beginning to get a little excited about the prospect. We drove a few hours away to Hanging Rock. This was a favorite spot of his when he was a young boy. It’s full of winding paths, waterfalls, open pastures and places to camp. I’d already called ahead to reserve our campsite, and though it was a little difficult to navigate in the dark, we were able to make our way to it with little work.
When we got there, we set up camp and made our hobos. For the uninitiated, these are packets of meat and veggies, wrapped
up in tinfoil and placed over an open flame. As we both hadn’t eaten since lunch, we devoured them once they were ready! The night was a little chilly, but it was calm without much wind, which made tent sleeping that much more pleasant!
The next morning, we got up early to hike to the summit of Hanging Rock. This spot gives me a little anxiety since it isn’t roped off at all, but we hung out toward the back and my fear of heights didn’t get the best of me! After enjoying peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a little trail mix, we headed back down the trail, packed up the remainder of our campsite, and went home.
Though I was hesitant to embrace the trek at first, I have to admit that camping wasn’t all that bad. I love nature and was happy to be outdoors, sleeping and eating among the wildflowers and crickets. As we were only going for one night, we eschewed showers, which thankfully meant there was no icky stall to navigate!
You won’t likely see my portrait gracing the cover of a camping magazine any time soon, but sometimes the steps
we take in the name of love turn out to be the most rewarding. That was certainly the case with my first camping excursion, which I’m now certain won’t be my last.
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