This Is Why I Don’t Camp

Last summer, my now-six-year old asked to go camping. At the time, we also had a one- and three-year old, so it was easy to demure. “Let’s think about that.” “Maybe next year.”

But living in Portland, the pressure to camp is almost as pervasive as the pressure to recycle, or complain about that new high-rise. Can you really call yourself a Portlander if you insist on sleeping on a mattress? And worse yet, a mattress positioned squarely under a roof?

Early this winter, my friend began organizing a group camping trip. In January, the prospect of actually having to camp seemed as distant as my memory of where our sleeping bags were. “Sure, why not!” I cavalierly replied. “My son’s been asking to.” I even signed up for two more trips while I was at it, thinking if we had to get the gear anyway it just made sense. The decision-making equivalent of someone two glasses of wine in – may as well finish the bottle! What harm could it do!?

Another friend sent me a link to an Amazon deal for an eight-person tent for $100. How could you pass that up? We were in.

The tent arrived a few days later. I attempted to set it up in the living room, only to realize eight-person tents are no joke. We don’t have the square footage for that beast inside our beautiful air-tight walls. I tucked it away inside the garage.

Then all of sudden, it was July. And that first camping trip was looming as close as the coyote soon to be lurking outside our tent.

I decided to have another go at the tent assembly, this time in our backyard. Let me just put in a little PSA here that tent assembly seems to be designed for people who do not need directions to assemble a tent. I have a new-found appreciation for the much-maligned Ikea instructions after this ordeal. After trying my damndest not to swear in front of my impressionable young children (even while my daughter helpfully declared “This doesn’t look right at all!”) it was “assembled.” My daughter – muttering to herself from a few feet away – “She did it. I can’t believe it. I didn’t think she was actually going to do it.”

In fairness to my daughter’s commentary, I use “assembled” loosely. As loosely as the pouches of fabric billowing mockingly from various parts of the tent. I soon realized an eight-person tent was a mistake. A two-person tent would be better. Just the right size for my son and my husband.

After admiring the monstrosity of a circus tent for a day, my son decided we should test it out. A camp-out in the backyard. My daughter, despite possessing a fear of being eaten by wild animals (can’t imagine where she got that from), was totally game. I agreed.

At bedtime, I sent the oldest two out to the tent while I put the two-year old in his indoor, normal bed. By the time I got out ten minutes later, my daughter was in tears. 

“I don’t want to get eaten by a coyote!” she wailed. “You won’t,” I explained. “It couldn’t get in the tent.” (I have no idea if that’s true.) “And anyway, you’re too big,” I concluded. (Again, seems accurate.) “That’s right,” my son piped in. “But a pack could definitely eat you.” And she was out. Back to the comfort and safety of her bed.

That left my son, by himself, in this garage-sized tent. I told him if he still wanted to sleep in there by my bedtime, I’d join him. Secretly, I was hoping he would maybe make it another 30 minutes or so out there by himself.

The tent remained ominously quiet.

Finally, after about an hour, his head emerged. “Just need to go pee!” he called out. He scampered inside, scampered back out. I began fantasizing about ways to scare him in. Find a wild animal soundtrack? Pull that old Brady Bunch trick of making a bear shadow puppet on the side of the tent? But some sort of parental guilt kicked in, and I decided it was best not to intentionally permanently scar my oldest son. He is our best hope for supporting us in old age at this point.

Unable to postpone the inevitable any longer, I headed out to the tent. A few things to note. First: Our camping supplies at this point consist of a roughly 12,000 square foot tent and some sleeping bags. No ground pads (if that’s what they’re called) or anything like that. You could feel every pebble under that stupid tent. Second: Our lawn has a gradual incline. So gradual you may not notice it. Until you try to sleep on it and find various parts of your body falling asleep as all the blood rushes down the slope. Hey, at least something slept. 

Finally nestling myself the wrong way in the bottom slope of the tent, I was able to somewhat thwart gravity. This left only the wind, strange noises, air temperature, twigs and rocks, restless child, Velcro on the sleeping bag, well-founded fears of tent collapse, and thoughts of the other possible harms that could rain upon us, in the way of a good night’s sleep. When the birds began scream-singing at 4:40 a.m., it was almost a relief.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

My son likes camping, even when no marshmallows are involved, which you have to admit is pretty weird.

I – well, I may have to resort to that shadow-bear thing. Because I’ve spent the last six years unwillingly losing sleep, and there’s no reason to do so willingly. Except, I guess, my son’s sparkling eyes this morning as he said “I can’t wait to go camping again!”

See you at the campsite. We’ll be the ones with the ridiculously large tent.

About the author: Ali Wilkinson lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband, three small children, and two large cats. She is a lawyer, writer, knitter, runner and over-consumer of Nutella. Her writing has appeared on Red Book, Babble, The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy and Elephant Journal, among others. She blogs about parenting and other things that make her laugh (and cry) at Run, Knit, Love. You can also find her on Facebook  and Twitter.